


A Game of Scarlet

by Naruthien



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Game of Thrones Fusion, Case Fic, Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Gen, My First Fanfic, POV John Watson, Pre-A Game of Thrones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-15
Updated: 2014-11-15
Packaged: 2018-02-25 11:37:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 38,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2620352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naruthien/pseuds/Naruthien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After leaving the service of House Stark at Winterfell, John ends up in King's Landing, but nothing ever happens to him. Until the day he meets Sherlock of House Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An unexpected meeting

**Author's Note:**

> This just sort of... happened. Honestly, I don't know what got into me, one day I was looking for a Sherlock/Game of Thrones crossover fic (as one does), and couldn't find what I had in mind. So for some insane reason, I decided to write it myself, even though I'm not a writer, and have only read ASoIaF once. Well, some 39,000 words later, my very first fanfic is finished, and I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. It's basically BBC Sherlock's A Study In Pink set in the ASoIaF/GoT world (before the first book of ASoIaF/the first season of GoT). 
> 
> My utmost thanks and deepest gratitude go to [f0xeg1rl](http://f0xeg1rl.tumblr.com/) and [FoiledMonsters](http://foiledmonsters.tumblr.com/), who were kind enough to beta a first-time writer's work – any and all remaining mistakes are mine, and mine alone. I am forever in the debt of Ariane DeVere, whose excellent [ASiP transcript](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/43794.html) was invaluable to me during the writing of this. Also, a big thank you to the people at the [ASoIaF-Wiki](http://awoiaf.westeros.org/), they have put together a fantastic resource for anybody interested in the world of Westeros (and Essos, of course). Since this is my first fic, I am eternally grateful for any and all feedback & constructive criticism!
> 
> Additional Note: When I described Sherlock's garments, I had HBO's Littlefinger in mind, especially [these outfits](http://forums.nexusmods.com/index.php?/topic/1468430-petyr-baelish-style-clothes/). I just love Petyr Baelish's costumes :)

John awoke from yet another nightmare, panting and drenched in cold sweat, heart beating wildly. His ears were still ringing with the screams from his dream, and the taste of blood was in his mouth. Trying to slow his far too rapid breathing, he sat up on the straw-filled mattress of his room. There was no light, and through the wooden shutters of his window, he could sense that it was still dark outside. But in a city as large as King’s Landing, the night was never silent: He could hear the clatter of horseshoes on cobbled streets, the cries of a child in one of the houses nearby, and the drunken ramblings of a man who had clearly had one cup too many.  
  
He decided that there was no way the gods would grant him any more sleep – untroubled or otherwise – tonight, but he also did not want to wake his sister or her children, who were sleeping next door. He silently cursed his aching leg and the bleak prospect of having to face another day with his sister. It had seemed such a good idea at the time, to leave Winterfell and come to King’s Landing, to escape the pity of the other men-at-arms in Lord Stark’s household, and to forget the pain of seeing his fellows and friends being slaughtered in the wildling ambush that had almost killed him as well, and rendered him unable to fight. He had wanted to begin a new life.  
  
Sighing, John admitted that he ought to begin looking for a place of his own – he loved his sister Harla, and she was the only family he had left, but living with her was driving them both up the wall. And she was busy enough with raising her five children and managing the trade business while her husband Clarence traveled all across the Seven Kingdoms. They had a shop in King's Landing, and when John arrived, he found out that a girl called Kella had helped her run the shop (and secretly shared her bed). However, since then Harla had cut off their affair and left her, and now John occasionally helped out at the shop. Harla really had enough on her mind at the moment, he didn't want her to worry about him as well. How he was going to pay for a place of his own was, however, another question entirely. _Nobody needs a sellsword with a limp or an archer with a hand tremor_ , he thought bitterly. He still had some of the coin left that he had brought with him from the North, but that was not going to last forever. Not for the first time, he wondered why the gods were so cruel… many times he had prayed to the old gods in front of the heart tree in Winterfell’s godswood, but the weirwood’s carved face had brought him no solace.  
  
Although he wasn't hungry, he broke his fast with Harla and the children. The table was set with bread and butter, honeyed porridge, and slices of apples and pears. The children's excited chatter droned on while John listlessly picked at some apple slices and quietly sipped his cup of water. When Harla finally ushered the children out of the kitchen, John got up to leave the house, leaning heavily on his walking staff. Despite his limp, he had taken to walking the width and breadth of the city, looking, searching, never ceasing to be amazed by the sheer size of it. All the noises, the smells, people of every rank, profession, age and skin color roaming the streets, pushing and pulling –  he tried to immerse himself in all the bustling _life_ around him, to let it wash over him and drown out the silence inside him, but it never reached him, never touched him, never filled him. He was cut loose, untethered, adrift. Lost. Alone. Everybody around him seemed so busy, so full of purpose and possibilities. He envied them, hated them even for it, because nothing ever happened to him, not anymore, not since the ambush. Lost in his bleak thoughts, he walked the cobbled streets until he found himself standing on Aegon's Square at the foot of Visenya’s Hill, looking at the seven slender towers surrounding the gleaming golden dome of the Great Sept of Baelor sitting upon it.  
  
“John?” a voice behind him called out. John turned around to see a portly man dressed in the expensive robes of a septon. “John! It’s me, Septon Michael.”  
  
It had taken John a moment to place the familiar-looking face, but now he realized that this was the same man that had traveled with him to King’s Landing. They had met at the crossroads inn, where the kingsroad meets the river road and the high road. Upon discovering that they were heading for the same place, they had decided to share the road, for even in this time of peace under King Robert Baratheon’s reign, the danger of outlaws was always on every traveler’s mind. Unlikely as it had seemed at the time, John and Michael had become friends, and he could not have wished for better traveling company. Septon Michael was good-natured and could tell many a stories to pass the long time on the road. To John’s great relief, he did not seem intent to discuss either the faith of the Seven or John’s faith in the old gods of the North. Instead, he had been eager to hear all about John’s life at Winterfell. John carefully avoided talking about how he had gotten injured, and Michael understood not to press the subject. Upon their arrival at King’s Landing, John had however lost track of the septon. He had certainly not expected to suddenly see him standing in the middle of the crowd on Aegon's Square, a cheerful smile on his face.  
  
“Yes, of course, Septon Michael,” John hastily replied.  
  
Michael grinned and gestured at his robes. “Yes, I know, a bit different from my travel garb.” With a little chuckle, he added ”You have to look your part when you’re at the Great Sept of Baelor. And I am teaching novices now, can you imagine? Bright young things, they are… Every day, they make me pray twice as hard to the Mother for patience.“  
  
They shared a little laugh at that before Michael turned more serious. “What about you? Still staying at your sister’s till you get yourself sorted?”  
  
John looked to the ground at his feet, at a loss for an answer. “She’s been very understanding, but I need to find a place of my own soon. Not that I could afford one, obviously.”  
  
Michael looked at him pensively. “Have you thought of sharing rooms with somebody?”  
  
“Who would want _me_ for a room-share?” John answered glumly.  
  
Michael chuckled and gave him a smile. “You are the second person to say that to me today.”  
  
“Who was the first?” John wondered.  
  
***  
  
John had never been to the Mother’s House before, but he had of course heard of the Merciful Sisters, septas who devoted their lives to service in the name of the Mother Above, expressing their faith not by words but by deeds. They were known to give alms to the needy, feed the hungry and tend to the sick who had no coin to pay for a barber, let alone a maester. They also stood watch over those who felt that death was near, and gave the bodies to the Silent Sisters for burial.  
  
Septon Michael did not lead him through the main entrance, where a throng of smallfolk was gathered, waiting to be let in. Instead, they entered by a side door from a small alley, and John was surprised to find himself standing in the kitchens. The sisters working here only briefly glanced at Septon Michael, and ignored John completely, before resuming their work. Michael led him through the kitchens along a passage, where he almost ran into a pretty young woman with long, light-brown hair. She, too, was wearing the robes of a Merciful Sister, and was hurrying along the corridor carefully balancing several books and jars stacked precariously on top of each other. Her lively brown eyes filled with curiosity when she spotted him, and she gave him a shy but warm smile as she passed.  
  
At the end of the corridor, Michael led John into a large windowless room filled to the brim with shelves upon which sat pots and jars of all shapes, small and large bundles of dried herbs and flowers, and many colorful flasks and bottles. To his right, John spotted a large bookcase, containing leather-bound books of all sizes. He briefly glanced at some of the titles: _Healing Herbs_ , _Poisons and Antidotes_ , _Rare Plants of the Crownlands_ , and many, many more.  
  
In the middle of the room, a slender man with dark, curly hair and dressed in a tight-fitting, midnight-blue robe sat hunched over at a table, peering intently at an array of small glass vials that were all filled with the same amount of a red liquid. A lamp stood on the table, illuminating the display in front of the man, but despite its warm light, the man's angular face looked ghostly pale. As John watched, the man carefully removed one of the vials from the wooden rack that held them upright, and slowly added a few drops of a clear liquid from one of the many bottles that stood on the table. He corked the vial and turned it upside down a few times before setting it back into the rack, his movements precise and measured.  
  
“This is John, a good friend of mine,” Michael announced.  
  
The dark-haired man looked up and their eyes met as he briefly focused his gaze on John before returning his attention to the vials in front of him. “Winterfell or White Harbor?” he asked in a surprisingly deep, resonant voice.  
  
John frowned. What way was that to start a conversation? No greeting, no pleasantries, no pointless inquiries about his well-being? Maybe he'd misheard, John pondered, because surely it wasn't possible that the man could know that he was from the North. Yes, that had to be it, he must have misheard. “Excuse me?” he asked politely.  
  
The man briefly looked up from his vials before resuming his intent observation of their contents. “Which was it – Winterfell or White Harbor?”  
  
John hesitated briefly, and looked to Michael, who just smiled knowingly. Had Michael already told the stranger about him? But if he had, why did the man then need to clarify which city in the North he was from? “Winterfell… but… how did you know…?” John trailed off helplessly.  
  
“Never mind, we have more important matters to discuss. How do you feel about the vielle?” The dark-haired man took another vial out of the rack and added a few drops of an amber-colored liquid from a different bottle to it.  
  
“I beg your pardon, what… ?” John asked, even more confused now. He certainly didn't mind a vielle, and had always enjoyed the music that had been played during the feasts in Winterfell's great hall, but what did the bloody vielle have to do with anything here and now?  
  
“I play the vielle when I am thinking. Sometimes I do not talk for days on end. Would that bother you?” The man looked back up and met John’s confused gaze. “We should know the worst about each other if we are to share quarters,” he added with a brief smile that didn't look quite natural to John.  
  
John glanced again at Michael, who this time pretended to be inspecting something on a shelf near the door. “Did you tell him about me?” John asked. That had to be the explanation – how else could a complete stranger know where he was from and why he'd come here?  
  
“Not a word,” replied Michael, his eyes twinkling with amusement.  
  
John looked back to the dark-haired man. If Michael hadn't told the man anything, there had to be another reason why they were talking about vielles and sharing quarters. “So, who said anything about sharing quarters?”  
  
The man had returned his attention back to the display in front of him, now adding a few drops of a faintly green-tinted liquid to a third vial. “ _I_ did. I told Michael this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a room-share for. And now here he is, back again without any apparent reason to do so, with a friend who is clearly from the North. It was not a difficult leap.”  
  
 _Not_ a difficult leap? John wondered briefly what could possibly count as a difficult leap for the man. Or whether anything did. “How _did_ you know about the North?” he inquired.  
  
Standing up, the man picked up a black cloak that he had carelessly dropped over the back of his chair, and completely ignored John's question. “I have my eye on a nice little place in the heart of King’s Landing. Together we ought to be able to afford it.” Fastening the cloak around his shoulders, he walked towards the door. “We shall meet on the morrow at evenfall. Excuse me, I need to take my leave. I think I forgot my scourge in the embalming chamber.”  
  
“Is that it?” John asked. The man really had some nerve, simply telling him to meet him without any further explanations. Who was he that he thought John would simply obey his request?  
  
The man was already half out of the door, but he turned back and gave John a questioning look. “Is that what?”  
  
“We have only just met and we are going to go and look at quarters together?” John asked doubtfully.  
  
The man frowned. “Is that a problem?”  
  
John couldn’t help but smile in disbelief; the whole situation was just too absurd. “We don't know a thing about each other. I don’t know where we are meeting. I don’t even know your name.”  
  
The man fixed him with the same intense stare that he had given the glass vials earlier. “I know you were a man-at-arms at Winterfell, but you left after you were injured. I know you are staying with your brother, who is a merchant, but you don’t want to stay because of his wife’s drinking habit.”  
  
Looking pointedly at the walking staff in John’s right hand, he added, “And I know that your limp is not caused by the injury you received, it is merely a fabrication of your mind, I am afraid. That’s enough to be going on with, don’t you think?”  
  
The man turned and left the room, his black cloak billowing behind him, but moments later he stuck his head back through the doorway and added, “The name is Sherlock Holmes, and we shall meet at the inn called “The Two Old Bakers” on the Street of Flour.”  
  
And with that, he was gone. John blinked, trying to get his head around what had just happened. He looked helplessly at Michael.  
  
Smiling, Michael answered his unspoken question. “Indeed, he _is_ always like that.”


	2. The Two Old Bakers Inn

On the next day at sundown, John found himself standing on the busy Street of Flour, in front of the Two Old Bakers Inn, waiting for the mysterious dark-haired man with whom he was possibly going to share quarters soon despite knowing nothing about him. Well, that wasn't exactly true. John _did_ know that he was a nobleman – House Holmes, he remembered, was a minor house of the Westerlands, and therefore held fealty to House Lannister of Casterly Rock. Why a nobleman, even a minor one, would want to share quarters with a commoner such as him, though... but then again, the man certainly didn't seem overly concerned with what befitted a nobleman and what didn't.  
  
The sign above the inn’s entrance, depicting two bakers in the traditional white garments of their trade, swung lightly in the evening breeze coming in from the bay. A soft murmur of voices drifted from the inn onto the street, and the light that spilled from its shuttered windows was warm and beckoning. John had just decided to go inside when he heard the unmistakable voice of his potential room-share bid him a good evening.  
  
“M'lord, how kind of you to meet me,” John replied, bowing his head in greeting.   
  
“Please, just call me Sherlock,” the man – Sherlock – said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I find titles and such nonsense terribly tiresome.”  
  
John gave the building that housed the inn an appraising look, then briefly glanced at the neighboring houses. “Well, this is an excellent spot. Must be expensive.”  
  
“Oh, Madam Hudson, the innkeeper and landlady, is giving me a special deal. She owes me a favor. A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Lys. I was able to help out,” Sherlock explained.  
  
“I beg your pardon,” John asked, “You stopped her husband being executed?” It seemed that Sherlock might be quite a bit more influential than he'd initially thought... and apparently kinder as well, he had to admit.  
  
Sherlock gave him a wry smile. “Oh no. I ensured it.”  
  
Opening the door for him, Sherlock let a bewildered John pass through into the warm buzz of the inn. It was still early, and only half or so of the benches were occupied. Two serving wenches were busy behind the counter, one handing out tankards of ale and wine and the other smallbites such as bread and soup to the eager customers. An older woman was making the rounds at the tables and greeting the regulars, but as soon as she spotted the newcomers in the doorway, she hurried over and gave Sherlock a warm hug. “Sherlock, dear, hello.”  
  
Sherlock stepped back and introduced John. “Madam Hudson, this is John of Winterfell.”  
  
Madam Hudson gave him a warm smile. “Welcome, John.”  
  
Waiving his hand in the direction of the staircase to their right, which John hadn't noticed before, Sherlock asked, “Shall we?”  
  
Madam Hudson led them upstairs and unlocked the door to their quarters while Sherlock waited patiently at the door for John to hobble up the seventeen stairs. Stepping through the doorframe, John entered what seemed to be the sitting room and marveled at how spacious the quarters were. However, to his astonishment the room was far from empty. Instead, it was cluttered with bits and pieces of furniture, shelves full of books and manuscripts, jars and bottles filled with who-knew-what strewn haphazardly over every visible surface, and a number of even stranger items – weapons of all sorts, a case of dead butterflies pinned to a velvet cushion, and the walls that were not covered in bookshelves had maps and drawings hanging from them.  
  
John thought that, apart from the mess, the quarters were just perfect. “Well, this could be very nice. Very nice indeed,” he said as he stepped further into the room. To his right, a wooden settle decorated with numerous soft cushions and blankets occupied most of the length of the wall. In front of it sat a low wooden table. Another, higher table stood in the middle of the sitting room, surrounded by narrow, high-backed chairs. At the far end to his left, John saw a lit fireplace with two comfortable-looking, wide chairs in front of it. From there, a doorway to the left led to another room: It contained a large, black cast-iron hearth, shelves stocked with numerous pots and jars, a cupboard, a basin, as well as a table and four chairs. A kind of supping room, John assumed, where they could take the meals prepared by Madam Hudson downstairs. Well, at least they would be able to do so once they got rid of all the previous lodger's mess. There were a number of randomly placed plates and cups and cutlery mixed with other, more unusual items, glass bowls and clay jars and tiny phials. It looked a bit like the room where John had first met Sherlock, at the septas' sickhouse.  
  
Sherlock unclasped his black cloak and hung it on a peg next to the door. He was wearing a purple silken robe today, delicately embroidered with silver thread. “Yes. Yes, I think so, too. My thoughts precisely.”  
  
“We just have to get all this mess cleaned out, then we can–” John started, while Sherlock had begun saying ”That’s why I went straight ahead and moved in.”  
  
John realized what Sherlock had just said, and paused, feeling slightly embarrassed. “So, this is all…?” he gestured vaguely around him.   
  
Sherlock started to pick up some random things from the table and the chairs in front of the fireplace, trying to clear out some space. “Well, obviously I can, uhm, straighten things up a bit.” He picked up some rolls of parchment from one of the chairs, put them on the mantelpiece above the fireplace, and stabbed a dagger into them.  
  
John sat down on the now clutter-free chair. It was made of walnut, its rich brown carved wood gleaming warmly in the light from the fireplace. The cushion on the seat was a dark-red velvet with an ornate dark gray pattern, and a woolen blanket checkered in red and gray covered the high backrest. Looking at the mantelpiece, John spotted another one of Sherlock’s unusual possessions and pointed his staff at it. “That is a skull.”  
  
Sherlock gave it a fond look. “A friend of mine.” He looked slightly embarrassed as he hastily added, “Well, when I say friend...”  
  
Madam Hudson caught John’s eye and gestured to the staircase. “The second bedchamber is upstairs, if you want to have a look.”  
  
John was just pondering whether getting up out of the chair and climbing another flight of stairs with his bad leg was worth the effort, when a silver-haired man wearing the golden cloak and black ringmail of the City Watch entered the room. The black breastplate of his armor showed four golden disks, designating him as an officer. John tensed, but the man ignored him completely. John noticed that Sherlock didn't seem the least bit surprised – or alarmed, as one might very well be when a member of the City Watch bursts into your quarters unannounced.  
  
“Where”? Sherlock asked coolly.  
  
The officer did not seem perturbed by this greeting, and strangely seemed to know exactly what Sherlock was asking about. John thought it looked as if the two men knew each other. But how?   
  
“Brick Row, near Fishmonger's Square,” the officer answered.  
  
Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the officer. “What is so special about this one? You wouldn’t have come to get me if there wasn’t something unusual about it.”  
  
“There’s a mark near the body, drawn in blood. Will you come?”   
  
The officer sounded anxious, and John could certainly relate to that feeling. There was a dead body? What could possibly be the reason for the City Watch to apparently ask Sherlock to come and see some dead body? It didn't make any sense.  
  
Turning his back to the officer, Sherlock looked out of the window onto the darkened street. “Not with you. I’ll meet you there.”  
  
“Thank you.” With a brief sigh of relief or resignation – John wasn’t sure which – the officer turned and quickly left the room. John frowned from the now empty door to Sherlock, upon whose face a smile was slowly spreading. As soon as the officer had closed the door behind him, Sherlock snapped into action, throwing up his hands and giving a small leap out of utter delight. “Brilliant! Yes! Ah, finally a proper murder!” In a whirlwind of motion, he picked up his cloak and headed for the staircase. “Madam Hudson, I’ll be late. I might need some food.”  
  
“I’m your landlady, Sherlock, not your serving wench. That's what the girls downstairs are for,” she reminded him.  
  
Already half out of the door, Sherlock replied, “Something cold shall do. John, make yourself at home. Don’t wait for me!”  
  
Madam Hudson looked fondly at the door through which Sherlock had just disappeared. “Look at him, dashing about! My husband was just the same.” Turning to John, she added, “But you are more the sitting-down type, I can tell. How about I fetch you a cup of ale, while you rest your leg.”  
  
The anger and frustration that had been a constant companion to him since his injury suddenly got the better of him. “ _Damn_ my leg.”  
  
Gods be good, just _what_ was wrong with him? John knew it wasn't poor Madam Hudson's fault that his leg was useless, and she certainly didn't deserve being shouted at. “Sorry, I am _so_ sorry. It’s just sometimes this thing…” He bashed his leg with the staff dejectedly.  
  
“I understand, dear. I have a hip.” Madam Hudson gave him an understanding smile.  
  
Trying to make up for losing his temper, he decided to take her up on her kindly offer. “A cup of ale would be lovely, thank you.”  
  
“Just this once, dear. I’m not your serving wench,” Madam Hudson did not tire of reminding him.  
  
John decided he might as well stay here for the evening and think about whether or not he ought to take up Sherlock’s offer to share these quarters. And making important decisions on an empty stomach was always a bad idea. “Some bread and cheese too, if you don’t mind,” he told Madam Hudson, who was already on her way to the door.  
  
“ _Not_ your serving wench!” she called back, making her way down the staircase.  
  
John had barely taken another look around the room when suddenly Sherlock was back, standing in the doorway. “You were a man-at-arms,” he stated matter-of-factly, but his eyes were gleaming with an unspoken challenge.  
  
“Yes.” John got up out of his chair, gripping the walking staff tightly in his right hand, and waited tensely for Sherlock to continue.   
  
“Were you any good?” Sherlock inquired.  
  
“ _Very_ good.” John knew it was true, he had always been good with a sword, and he had been one of the best archers at Winterfell.  
  
Sherlock started to slowly walk back into the sitting room towards John. “You have seen a lot of injuries, then. Violent deaths.”  
  
“Yes.” Indeed he had, John thought; the wildlings that made it over the Wall were always dangerous, and of course there was the occasional hedgeknight turned outlaw. Not to speak of the Greyjoy Rebellion, which had taken place six years ago. King Robert himself and his friend Lord Stark had led the last battle: the Siege of Pyke. They had finally managed to shatter the main watchtower and breach the castle walls with siege engines, but taking the castle was a bloody business. The ironborn were nothing if not fierce fighters, and they defended the castle with all they had. In the end, King Robert's and Lord Stark's men succeeded in taking the castle, but the price had been high.  
  
“Some trouble, too, I care to think,” Sherlock prompted. He had now come to stand directly in front of John.   
  
John looked up at Sherlock, gaze unflinching. “Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much.” Standing between the still-warm corpses of friends and foes that littered the castle's courtyard, the smell of blood, sweat and seawater so strong that it threatened to suffocate him, John's knees had gone weak and he had sunk to the ground, so tired that he thought he might never be able to get up again.  
  
The faintest hint of a smile appeared in the corners of Sherlock's lips. “Do you want to see some more?”  
  
Without a moment's hesitation, John replied, “Oh Gods, yes.” Because that day in the courtyard, surrounded by death, he had not only felt tired – but also infinitely alive.  
  
Sherlock turned on his heel and led John out of the room and down the stairs. John saw that Madam Hudson was standing at the bottom of the stairs. “Sorry, Madam Hudson, I’ll skip that cup. We’re out.”  
  
“Both of you?” she wondered.  
  
“A gruesome murder, a message written in blood? There’s no point sitting at home when there is finally something _enjoyable_ going on!”  
  
Madam Hudson tried to look disapproving, but ended up smiling at Sherlock instead. “Look at you, all happy. It's not decent.”  
  
Cloak billowing behind him, Sherlock dashed out of the door with John following closely behind. “Who cares about decent?” Sherlock asked. “The game, Madam Hudson, is afoot!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note concerning the timeline: This story takes place in 295 AL, three years before the events in “A Game of Thrones” & GoT's first season take place.


	3. Questions

It was now fully dark outside, and the temperature had dropped considerably. The moon and stars hid behind heavy clouds, which carried the promise of rain later in the night, and John wished he had thought to bring his cloak. In front of him, Sherlock set off south at a brisk pace and without a backwards glance, so it was up to John to try and follow him best as he could with the limp and the walking staff. Sherlock didn’t say a word as they walked along, and John couldn’t quite summon up the nerve to break the silence and ask the questions that were nagging at him. Instead, he kept stealing brief glances at Sherlock while thinking about what he had gotten himself into now.  
  
Finally, Sherlock looked at him. “You’ve got questions,” he stated matter-of-factly.  
  
In fact, he had quite a few questions, but John decided to start with the most obvious one. “Where are we going?”  
  
“To a house where a murder took place. Next?”  
  
Wondering whether Sherlock would care to answer the next question more helpfully, John asked, “Who are you? What do you do?”  
  
Sherlock looked at him quizzically. “What do you think?”  
  
Was this some kind of test? If so, John didn't think he knew what answer was expected of him. “I'd say,” he answered hesitantly, “that you were some kind of counselor…”  
  
“But?” Sherlock prompted.  
  
“But the gold cloaks don't go to counselors,” John finished his train of thought.  
  
Sherlock didn't seem put off by John's remark. “I am a counseling _investigator_. The only one in the world. I invented the occupation.”  
  
John had never heard of an investigator before, let alone a counseling one. “What does that mean?”  
  
“It means that when the gold cloaks are out of their depth, which is always, they seek my counsel.”   
  
That was, of course, ridiculous. It had to be. Such things simply didn't happen. “The gold cloaks don't seek counsel from ordinary  townsmen,” John pointed out.  
  
Sherlock shot him a dark look. “When I met you for the first time yesterday, I said “Winterfell or White Harbor”. You looked surprised.”  
  
John was quite sure that he _still_ looked surprised. And stumped. “Of course. How _did_ you know that?”   
  
“I didn’t know, I _saw_. Your fair skin, blonde hair and blue eyes say you’re from the North. So does your wardrobe, and the shoes you wear, but they are not home-made, they have been bought from a trader. Your build and the way you move says well-trained fighter. Your limp is bad when you walk, but you don’t ask for a chair when you stand, like you have forgotten about it, so it’s at least partly a fabrication of your mind. That says the original circumstances of the injury were direful. Wounded in battle, then, as a man-at-arms. But these are times of peace, the last war was six years ago, and you have only recently left the North – so, wounded in a skirmish, or ambushed. The only places in the North large enough to have a considerable amount of trade and a high demand for well-trained men-at-arms are Winterfell and White Harbor.”   
  
Sherlock stated this as if it was completely obvious. To him, it probably was, John thought. He was too stunned to manage a reply.  
  
“And then there is your brother,” Sherlock continued. “You were born in the North, just like all of your family, but one of them moved here... why else would you come to King's Landing after being injured? At your age, a sibling or cousin is most likely, but you don't like to ask for help or favors, so you wouldn't stay with a distant relative; sibling it is, then. You are staying with is a cloth trader – not a woman's business – and you help your brother at his shop, which is why you have fibers from at least four different cloths on your breeches and tunic. You are looking for a room-share, so you are not content with your current lodgings. _Maybe_ because you don't want to impose on your brother, more likely because you don't approve of his wife's drinking habits .”  
  
Incredulous, John couldn't help wondering. “How can you _possibly_ know about the drinking?”  
  
“A shot in the dark. A good one, though. Your sleeves have been re-hemmed recently, but the seamwork is sloppy because her hands are shaking. Typical for a heavy drinker.”   
  
John's head was spinning and he couldn't possibly think of anything to say to that, so he simply kept his mouth shut. To his surprise, Sherlock admitted, “So, you see you were right.”  
  
This seemed quite absurd to John. “ _I_ was right? Right about what?”  
  
“The gold cloaks don't seek counsel from ordinary townsmen,” Sherlock replied.  
  
Despite his self-assured manner, Sherlock looked tense waiting for John's reaction.   
  
“That... was amazing,” John finally managed to say.  
  
Sherlock looked at him, briefly at a loss for words. “Do you think so?”  
  
John was astonished to hear genuine surprise in Sherlock's voice – as if John's praise was something new and wholly unexpected. “ _Of course_ it was. It was extraordinary. It was quite extraordinary.”  
  
Sherlock admitted, “That is not what people usually say.”   
  
“What do people usually say?” John wondered.  
  
“Get lost,” Sherlock replied with a bitter smile.  
  
Shaking his head in disbelief, John let out a short laugh. _Most people are fools_ , he thought.  
  
John noticed that they had now arrived on Fishmonger's Square, walking west towards Brick Row.   
  
“Did I get anything wrong?” Sherlock asked.  
  
John confirmed, “I'm staying at my brother's who is a trader and whose wife is too fond of strongwine.”  
  
Sherlock looked more than just a little pleased with himself. “Completely correct, then. I didn't expect to be right about everything.”  
  
“My trader brother is, in fact, my good-brother. His wife is my sister,” John added.  
  
Abruptly, Sherlock stopped, looking thunderstruck. “The sibling is your sister,” he repeated slowly. The look of surprise on his face quickly turned into dismay. He seemed furious that he had not, in fact, been right about every last little detail. “Sister!” he muttered angrily through clenched teeth.  
  
Down the road, John could see a gold cloak standing watch in front of one of the houses, reminding him of where they were heading, and what may have happened there. John decided they needed to talk about more pressing matters. “Tell me, what exactly am I supposed to do here.” Unfortunately, Sherlock didn't seem to have heard him: he was still muttering to himself. John tried to keep the edge of exasperation out of his voice as he repeated, a bit more forcefully this time, “Really, pray do tell me what I am doing here.”   
  
Of course, John should have suspected that he wouldn't get a straight answer to a simple question, not from Sherlock Holmes. Instead, John heard him grumble, “There's always something.” Thankfully Sherlock at last recovered enough from his indignation to resume their walk. As they approached the gold cloak, John noticed that, like all members of the City Watch, he was clad in black ringmail, black boots, black gloves, and of course the eponymous golden cloak. At his side, an iron cudgel hung from his black leather belt, and his right hand held a spear topped by a black iron head.  
  
“Hello, fiend,” was the gold cloak's greeting as they stepped up to him. His bronze-skinned face was framed by close-cropped, curly black hair, and his brown eyes studied Sherlock warily.  
  
Sherlock didn't waste any time on greetings. “I am here to see Captain Lestrade,” he announced in his most imperious voice.  
  
The man was tall, almost as tall as Sherlock, and he didn't move an inch as he asked, “Why?”  
  
“I was invited,” Sherlock stated matter-of-factly.  
  
“ _Why_?” The gold cloak's voice left no doubt that he could think of no good reason whatsoever for anybody to invite Sherlock to be here.  
  
“I think he wants me to take a look,” Sherlock replied in a voice that John imagined was usually reserved for small children and half-wits.  
  
“Well, you know what I think, do you not?” the gold cloak asked, his eyes bright with scorn.  
  
“Always, Salleon.” Taking a deep breath through his nose, Sherlock added, “I even know where you went last night.”  
  
“I don't...,” The gold cloak started disdainfully, but then his gaze fell on John, whom he apparently hadn't noticed before. “And who is this?” he demanded to know.  
  
“A companion of mine, John of Winterfell,” Sherlock answered coolly. “John, meet my old friend Salleon.” His voice dripped with contempt at the word “friend”.  
  
Salleon's eyebrows rose in surprise. “Companion? How do you get a companion?” Turning to John, Salleon asked incredulously, “What, did he follow you home?”  
  
So, John thought, apparently Sherlock Holmes did not usually invite complete strangers to go look at murder sites together. Just him. That was... good? A relief? Flattering? In any case, just now John – apparently in contrast to Sherlock – did _not_ need any trouble with the City Watch, so he tried to appease the gold cloak. “Would it be better if I just waited and...”  
  
Sherlock, of course, would have none of it. “No,” was all he had to say to the matter, and with an air of easy authority, he simply stepped past Salleon into the house. Not wanting to be left behind with the offensive man, John quickly followed. Inside, they immediately came upon another gold cloak, a brown-haired man with a thick brown beard wearing the same armor as the gold cloak outside.  
  
“Ah, Andrey. Here we are again,” Sherlock said in way of greeting.  
  
Andrey looked at Sherlock with apparent distaste. John immediately liked Andrey even less than Salleon, and wondered whether there was anybody left on the City Watch who did not hold a grudge against Sherlock. Sherlock ignored the look Andrey was giving him and took another deep breath through his nose. “I hope you enjoyed your visit to the brothels with Salleon last night. It really is a good way to save some coin, sharing the same prostitute. I'm sure your wife approves of your frugality.”  
  
Looking furious, Andrey hissed, “Where in the name of the Seven did you get that idea? We didn't...”  
  
“Your smell gave me that idea,” Sherlock cut him off with a smug smile on his lips. “The cheap perfume of a whore still clings to you, and the same smell is all over Salleon. Knowing how well the two of you get along, you either went to the same whore together... or the smell rubbed off from Salleon onto you in some other queer way.”  
  
Pointing the index finger of his gloved hand angrily at Sherlock, Andrey barked, “Now look, whatever you are hinting at...”  
  
“I am not hinting at _anything_ , Andrey,” Sherlock replied, voice thick with mock innocence.  
  
Leaving the seething Andrey behind, Sherlock climbed up the stairs with John following closely. Upstairs, a short corridor with four doors awaited them. Sherlock headed for the only open door, stepping swiftly into a small, bare room. A straw mattress in one corner, a table and two chairs below a tiny window, a chest in the other corner, a cupboard and a hearth on the left wall were all that the room contained. Next to one of the chairs, the body of a young man lay face-down on the floor, clothed in brown breeches and a coarse tunic. As soon as they entered, Lestrade stopped pacing the small room. “Who is this?” he said, looking at John, eyebrows raised in mild surprise.  
  
“He's with me,” Sherlock replied.  
  
Apparently, this answer didn't suffice for Lestrade. “But who _is_ he?”  
  
“I _said_ he's with me,” Sherlock repeated, as if that was all the captain of the City Watch needed to know. To John's surprise, Lestrade seemed to agree, or at least he was willing to let the matter rest for the time being. Pointing at the dead man to his feet, he said, “His name is Will Storm. He was a member of the City Watch, didn't show up for duty this morning, so we sent someone over to check on him. Found him just like this two hours ago.”   
  
_Will Storm – bastard-born, then, with that name_ , John thought. In each of the Seven Kingdoms, baseborn children bore different surnames. In the North, they were called Snow, and John remembered well how Lord Stark hat brought home his own baseborn infant son, Jon Snow, when he returned from fighting with Robert Baratheon against the Mad King Aerys and his son, Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. John had almost been a man grown at the time, turning sixteen on his next name day. Needless to say that Lord Stark's wife Catelyn had not been pleased when presented with the result of her husband's dishonor. The poor lad had never gained her favor, and John had wondered what would become of the boy when he grew up. He had  often given him archery lessons and practiced swordplay with him – using wooden swords, of course – in Winterfell's courtyard, and John remembered that he'd had a good eye for shooting, and an even better arm for fighting.  
  
Sherlock stepped closer, gaze focused on the dead man's body. Since John had no clue what he was supposed to be doing here anyway, he lingered near the door. For several moments, nobody said a word.   
  
“Shut up,” Sherlock exclaimed.  
  
Startled, Lestrade objected, “I didn't say anything.”  
  
“You were thinking. It's annoying,” Sherlock explained.  
  
John and Lestrade shared a surprised look, while Sherlock got closer to the body. Kneeling beside it, he sniffed first at his tunic sleeves and then at his face. His attention then turned to the right hand which lay next to the man's face. The tip of the index finger was covered in blood, and above the hand a mark could be seen on the floorboards, apparently drawn in blood: A straight, horizontal line with one upward-facing triangle at either end, their tips touching the line, and one downward-facing triangle, its tip touching the line in the middle. Sherlock turned his attention to the other hand. A small black smudge was visible on the pad of the index finger. Looking at the table, Sherlock spotted an inkwell and a quill. Next to it, there were two empty cups. Sherlock got up and looked inside both of them: There were some red stains at the bottom of both cups. After sniffing at each of them, he put the cups back on the table.   
  
“Got anything?” Lestrade asked.  
  
“Not much.” Sherlock walked over to the door, and John moved aside to let him through. Sherlock looked at the outside of the lock and the doorframe. Both seemed undamaged. Then he strode to the straw mattress, lifted it up against the wall and peered first at its underside and then at the previously covered floorboards. Getting on his knees, he took a closer look: Where the wall met the floor, one of the floorboards showed a few scratch marks.  
  
John hadn't even realized that Andrey had come up the stairs and only noticed him when he spoke up right next to him. “Will drew that mark. It's clear he wanted us to find it, so that we could catch whoever did this to him.” While Andrey had been talking, Sherlock had quickly gotten up and now started to close the door in Andrey's face. With a disdainful “Yes, thank you for your input,” he slammed the door shut.  
  
“So Will tried to tell us who the murderer is by drawing that mark?” Lestrade asked.  
  
Sherlock looked annoyed. “Of course not. Clearly the murderer drew the mark himself, using the dead man's hand as his quill. So far, so obvious.”  
  
John did not know whether this was obvious to Lestrade, but to him it certainly wasn't. “Sorry, obvious?”  
  
Walking back to the body and kneeling next to it, Sherlock looked expectantly at John. “Would you mind giving me a hand?”  
  
John left his place at the door and limped over, conscious of the disapproving look Lestrade was giving him. Leaning heavily onto his walking staff, he lowered himself awkwardly – and painfully – onto his knees. Looking over to Sherlock, who was kneeling on the other side of the body, he whispered, “ _What_ am I doing here?”  
  
“Helping me,” Sherlock whispered back.  
  
“I'm supposed to be helping you pay the rent,” John reminded him.  
  
“Yes, but this is more fun.”  
  
With a pointed look at the body, John replied, “Fun? There is a man lying dead in front of me.”  
  
“Perfectly sound analysis, but I was hoping you could help me turn him around to check for injuries.”  
  
Careful not to disturb the mark above the man's head, John and Sherlock rolled the stiff and cold body over. John could see no blood, no bruises, or indeed any other kind of injury. To him, the man looked completely unscathed – except for the fact that he was dead. Young, healthy men did not simply fall dead from their chair, he mused.   
  
Lestrade's voice interrupted John's train of thought. “I need anything you've got.”  
  
Getting up swiftly, Sherlock started to walk towards Lestrade. “The murderer was let in by the victim yesterday night. They drank together, he poisoned the wine, the victim drank from the poisoned cup and died. The murderer drew the symbol with the victim's hand, but he did not use the victim's blood for it. Instead, he used his own.”  
  
Lestrade interrupted. “If you're just making all of this up...”  
  
Sherlock gestured towards the door as if this was all a rather tedious affair. “There are no marks of a forced entry on the lock or the doorframe, so clearly the victim invited the murderer inside. The body is cold, so he has been dead for more than half a day. The stiffness of his limbs, however, has not abated yet, which indicates that his death occurred no more than two days ago. You mentioned he did not show up for duty today, implying that he _did_ show up the day before. Therefore, he must have been killed sometime during last night.”  
  
John looked admiringly at Sherlock. “That's brilliant.” He hadn't even realized he had said that aloud until Sherlock shot him a surprised look. “Sorry,” he added apologetically.  
  
“What makes you think the murderer drew that mark and used his own blood for it?” Lestrade asked.  
  
Sherlock pointed at the body. “The victim was left-handed, but the symbol was written with his right hand. There are no cuts or other visible injuries on the body. So where else could the blood have come from if not from the dead man? The murderer, of course!   
  
“How do you know the victim was left-handed?” John wondered.  
  
“His cup is on the left side of the table and, more importantly, there is ink on his left index finger. Which brings us to the only interesting question: What had he been writing? There is ink and a quill on the table, but no parchment. The victim lived alone, in a rented room, quite unusual for a man of his young age. Most young recruits would prefer to live at the barracks of the City Watch, which is far cheaper. The victim needed privacy. He had something to hide, something he wanted to keep safe and out of sight.” Sherlock had moved to the upturned mattress. Unsheathing the small dagger that hung from his belt, he knelt on the floor and pried the floorboard open. John and Lestrade moved closer to get a better look. Removing the floorboard, Sherlock revealed a small space underneath, containing a bundle wrapped in coarse cloth.   
  
“That's fantastic!” John exclaimed.  
  
Sherlock turned to him and asked him quietly, “Do you know you do that out loud?”  
  
John felt embarrassed and foolish. “Sorry. I'll shut up.”  
  
“No, it's... fine,” Sherlock admitted, sounding slightly surprised at the realization. Turning back to the bundle, Sherlock unwrapped it and revealed several sheets of parchment which he quickly scanned. “Extortion, bribery... He's apparently been quite busy. You really should choose your people more carefully, Lestrade.”  
  
“Yes, thank you for your advice,” Lestrade said sourly. “So, it's likely that one of his victims killed him. Are there any names on those parchments?”  
  
“Only initials, but you won't find the murderers name in here anyway,” Sherlock replied.  
  
Lestrade looked taken aback. “We won't?”  
  
Sherlock looked more than a bit exasperated. “It's obvious, isn't it?”  
  
“It isn't obvious to me,” John asserted.  
  
“Gods be good, what is it like in your funny little minds? It must be so boring.” Waving a hand in the direction of the body, Sherlock said, “This isn't about money. You can see that the victim still has some coins in his purse, and nothing seems to have been stolen. The incriminating parchments are still where the victim hid them. Surely somebody clever enough to enter this room, kill the victim and leave again unnoticed would not have left such damning evidence behind. And then there is the mark drawn in blood. Do you really think somebody would go to the trouble of cutting themselves just to mislead the City Watch? There are far easier ways of doing that, considering how inept most of its members are.”  
  
Ignoring the jibe about his men, Lestrade asked, “So, what about the mark then? Do you know what it means?”  
  
Sherlock gave him a condescending look and moved back to the body, his cloak swirling behind him. “Of course. Don't you?”  
  
Meeting his gaze, Lestrade sighed with strained patience but at least he managed not to roll his eyes at Sherlock as he replied with a sarcastic “Pray, do enlighten us.” John wondered how often Lestrade had had to put up with Sherlock's attitude in the past. Probably quite a few times, if his air of long-suffering was anything to go by.  
  
In a patronizing tone, Sherlock said, “It's a rather crude representation of a pair of scales. Even you know that's the symbol of the Father Above. Our murderer seems to be a man with a strong faith in the Seven.”  
  
Turning his attention back to the body, Sherlock spoke in a low voice, apparently lost in though. “He comes here with the poisoned wine, he makes him drink the poison, he leaves no trace be-... oh...” As realization hit him, his eyes widened and his face lit up with delight. “Oh!” he repeated more forcefully, excitement evident in his voice.  
  
“Sherlock?” John asked, because he had absolutely no clue what Sherlock's realization might have been about. Instead of answering, Sherlock moved to the table and leaned over it to open the small window above. He stuck his head outside, and seemed to be peering intently left and right. John couldn't fathom what had him so interested, and Sherlock did not provide an explanation. Retreating from the table, Sherlock turned abruptly and strode towards the door, talking hurriedly to Lestrade. “Find out whose names are on those parchments. It won't lead you to the murderer, but you might just as well do something useful and find out whether anybody else took part in the victim's crimes.” Without a word of farewell, he dashed out of the door and down the steps.  
  
Apparently Lestrade was too stunned by Sherlock's abrupt departure to object. John shared the feeling, and it took him a few moments before he realized that he had arrived here with Sherlock and therefore presumably also ought to leave with him. Lestrade, however, had recovered first, and was already hurrying down the steps, calling for Andrey. John took one last look at the room, and then slowly made his way downstairs and out of the house, the walking staff his only company. Outside, he looked for Sherlock, but couldn't see him anywhere.  
  
“He's gone,” Salleon stated. He was still standing guard outside the house and had noticed John's confused expression. “He just took off. He does that. Didn't look like he was coming back.”  
  
“Yes... right...” Not sure what to do next, John hesitated for a moment, but then decided to head home to his sister's. He should have expected something like this to happen, really. Broken things always got left behind.   
  
However, he had only taken a few steps down the street when Salleon's voice stopped him again. “But you're not his friend.”  
  
John turned back to look at him questioningly.  
  
“He doesn't _have_ friends. So who are you?”  
  
John didn't know _what_ he was to Sherlock Holmes, but whatever it was, it surely was none of Salleon's business. However, he had no wish to quarrel with the man. “I'm... I'm nobody. I just met him.”  
  
Salleon looked closely at him. “In that case, I shall give you some advice: Stay away from him.”  
  
“Why?” John wondered.  
  
Salleon's expression was a mixture of annoyance and worry as he replied, “Do you know why he is here? He's not paid any coin. He likes it. It excites him. The stranger the crime, the more he is excited. And do you know what? One day just showing up will not be enough. One day we shall be standing around a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one that put it there.”  
  
John found that hard to believe, but then again, he had to admit he barely knew the man. “Why would he do that?”  
  
“Because he is a madman. And madmen get bored.” Salleon stated as if this were a simple truth that surely nobody could fail to see.  
  
John couldn't think of anything to reply to that, and luckily Lestrade chose that moment to call Salleon inside. With one last, hard look at John, he repeated, “Stay away from Sherlock Holmes.”


	4. The arch-enemy

Accompanied only by the sharp click, click, click of his walking staff on the pavement, John followed Brick Lane down until it met the Street of Steel. Here, he turned his back on Fishmonger’s Square and walked uphill, heading in the direction of the Lion Gate to return to his sister's. His second meeting with Sherlock had left him even more bewildered than the first, and his mind kept returning to the strange events of the evening. Lost deep in his own thoughts, he at first did not notice the woman who was standing in front of one of the many blacksmith's shops on the left side of the street, apparently waiting for something… or rather, someone. When he was almost level with her, the woman quickly tucked a stray strand of her long, chestnut-colored hair behind her ear and stepped decisively into his path.  
  
“Well met, John of Winterfell.” Her brown eyes shone with an amused glint.  
  
John halted abruptly and his eyes widened in surprise as he took in the woman’s appearance: the sleek silken garments that hugged her slender frame, her attractive face and her red, smiling mouth. Then he remembered that the woman had called him by his name even though he was absolutely certain he had never seen her before, and his gaze turned from pleased to wary. “Who are you?”  
  
Smiling brightly, the woman replied, “Anthea.”  
  
John frowned. “Is that your real name?”  
  
“No,” Anthea replied, still smiling sweetly. “Two men have been following you since you left Will Storm’s house.” Her gaze fixed a point over his right shoulder, then she pointedly looked ahead to the left and nodded. “And there are two more men waiting up the street.”  
  
John followed her gaze and saw two men-at-arms who did not even pretend to look inconspicuous. Instead, they looked right back at him. His left hand itched to hold a sword, or at least his dagger. But since he was unarmed, he clenched his hand into a fist instead. “Indeed,” he conceded. “So, why are you pointing this out to me?” His voice betrayed nothing but polite curiosity.  
  
“Follow me.” Anthea started walking up the street and with a brief glance at John, who had not started moving, added, “I _would_ make some sort of threat, but I am sure your situation is quite clear to you.”  
  
Looking first at the two men behind him, then at the two men ahead, and last at Anthea’s rapidly retreating form, John didn't feel the heated rush of danger. Instead, he felt cold – calm and cold, just as he always had on the eve of battle. He decided to comply for now and find out what all this was about.   
  
When he and Anthea passed the two men-at-arms, they gave her a curt nod which she politely returned. Anthea led them wordlessly a bit further uphill along the Street of Steel and then turned left, and thereby downhill again, into Iron Lane. John glanced behind and saw that the two men-at-arms were following them at some distance.  
  
“Any point in asking where we are going?” John asked.  
  
Anthea again gave him a wide smile before turning her attention back to the street. “None at all.”  
  
After a few more twists and turns – John was fairly certain they were now close to the King's Gate, though he'd never walked along this particular street before – they at last reached a house with a single red lantern hanging on a heavy chain beside the door. Anthea stepped up to the door, and with an inviting gesture held it open for John. The sounds of music and raucous laughter drifted onto the street. Stepping inside, he could see a crowded common room where young girls dressed in linen shifts and wisps of colored silk pressed themselves against their lovers and dandled on their laps. Beside the large fireplace, two young men were playing a merry song, one singing and the other accompanying him on the flute. “Oh I'm a maid, and I'm pure and fair, I'll never dance with a hairy bear! A bear! A bear! I'll never dance with a hairy bear!” John knew the words of _The Bear and the Maiden Fair_ well, and for a moment thought longingly of the Great Hall of Winterfell, hazy with smoke and heavy with the smell of roasted meat and fresh-baked bread, and he could almost hear the roar of the fire, the clangor of pewter plates and cups, and the talking, laughing and singing of a hundred voices.  
  
Anthea strode straight through the common room without a glance to the other patrons, and John followed her warily. No one paid them the least bit of attention. They went up a flight of stairs, along a corridor, and came to stand in front of a dark wooden door. Anthea looked at him expectantly, so John turned the door handle and found it unlocked.   
  
Opening the door, he saw a lavishly decorated room with a large bed covered in crimson and rose-colored cushions. On the other side of the room, a rich red-brown mahogany table held a golden bowl of fruits and a flagon of deep red wine as well as two richly decorated glass goblets with golden stems. A man with short, dark hair dressed in a black velvet robe and holding an ebony staff with a curved ivory handle stood at the right of the two stained-glass windows at the far side of the room, turning towards the door as John stepped inside. The man exuded an air of easy confidence; clearly, he was used to being in command, to having his orders obeyed without question. John knew that sense of entitlement – all noblemen seemed to be born with it.   
  
“Have a seat, John,” the man said amiably, indicating with the tip of his ebony staff one of the ornate chairs at the equally ornate table. The man smiled pleasantly at John, but his eyes remained cold and calculating. His friendly tone of voice did nothing to conceal the order behind his words – an order John would do well to obey. Well, John thought, whoever the man might be, he was going to find out very soon that John was not so easily intimidated.  
  
John walked right past the offered chair until he was directly in front of the man. Behind him, he could hear the faint click of the door being gently shut. “You know, you could have just asked me to meet you,” John said.  
  
The man’s pleasant smile didn’t falter. “When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet, hence this place.” Looking at John’s leg, he added in a condescending tone of mock concern “The leg must be hurting you. Sit down.”  
  
John stayed exactly where he was. “I don’t want to sit down.”  
  
Looking at him with obvious curiosity, the man stated, “You don’t seem very afraid.”  
  
John held the man’s gaze with ease. “You don’t seem very frightening.”  
  
The man chuckled as if John had made a rather amusing joke. “Ah, yes. The bravery of the warrior. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don’t you think?” The man fixed John with a steely gaze, and his voice lost any hint of lingering amusement. “What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?”  
  
“I don’t have one. I barely know him. I met him… yesterday.” John looked away thoughtfully, recalling his first meeting with Sherlock the day before. He could hardly believe how little time had passed since then.  
  
The man looked intrigued. “Mmmh, and since yesterday you have moved in with him and now you are solving murders together. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?”  
  
Of course John had not yet actually agreed to share quarters with Sherlock, but he didn’t feel the need to correct the man on this point. Instead, he asked, “Who _are_ you?”  
  
“An interested party,” the man replied smugly.  
  
“Interested in Sherlock? Why? I’m guessing you’re not friends.”  
  
Giving him a condescending look, the man said, “You’ve met him. How many _friends_ do you imagine he has? I am the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having.”  
  
“And what’s that?” John wondered.  
  
“An enemy,” the man stated matter-of-factly   
  
“An enemy?” John didn’t know whether the man was joking or not, but if he was, John didn’t find it amusing. Not at all.  
  
“In _his_ mind, certainly,” the man explained. “If you were to ask him, he would probably say _arch_ -enemy. He does love to be dramatic.”  
  
Looking pointedly at his surroundings, John feigned a sigh of relief. “Well, thanks to the gods that _you’re_ above all that.”  
  
Unperturbed, the man kept looking hard at him. “Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?”  
  
John had no idea who the man really was or why he was here, but he _did_ know that he did not like being questioned like this. “I could be wrong… but I think that’s none of your business.”  
  
Ominously, the man replied, “It could be.”  
  
“It _really_ could not,” John insisted.  
  
The man gave him a cold smile, and tried a different approach. “If you do move into the quarters above the Two Old Bakers Inn, I would be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to ease your way.”  
  
Was he really being asked to spy on Sherlock Holmes? For money? Truly? He had always thought such things only happened at the King's court. Who was this man? Aloud, he instead asked, “Why?”  
  
The man answered, “Because you are not a wealthy man.” John suspected that the misunderstanding was deliberate.   
  
“In exchange for what?” John asked suspiciously.  
  
“Information. Nothing indiscreet. Nothing you would feel… uncomfortable with. Just tell me what he is up to.”  
  
“Why?” John repeated.  
  
“Because I worry about him... constantly,” the man replied softly.  
  
“That’s nice of you,” John said in a perfectly polite voice.  
  
The man lifted his staff, and John wondered briefly whether the ebony shaft concealed a blade of some sort. The man carefully examined the staff's tip. “But I would prefer for various reasons that my concern go unmentioned. We have what you might call a… difficult relationship.” Finally setting the tip of the staff back on the floor, the man lifted his gaze back to John.  
  
 _Time to put an end to this ridiculous game_ , John thought, and said, “No.”   
  
“But I have not even mentioned a figure,” the man said, again giving him a cold smile that did not reach his eyes.  
  
“Don’t bother,” was all John had to add to that, because he'd already made up his mind, and there really was no point in trying to change it.  
  
The man gave a short, humorless laugh that quickly turned into a frown. “You are very loyal, _very_ quickly,” the man stated.  
  
“No, I’m not. I’m just _not_ interested,” John explained, still keeping up the pretense of politeness.  
  
The man reached into his robe and and withdrew a folded piece of parchment. Unfolding it, he looked at it closely. “Your sister writes that you have trust issues.”  
  
John's gaze was fixed on the parchment and his brows furrowed in confusion. Cold dread began to pool in his stomach. Was that a copy of one of his sister's letters? It certainly seemed like it. “What is that?” he asked in the calmest tone he could muster. _And how in seven hells did you get your hands on it?_  
  
With his gaze still on the parchment in his hands, the man wondered, “Could it be that you have decided to trust Sherlock Holmes of all people?”  
  
“Who says I trust him?” John asked, finally tearing his gaze from the parchment and looking back up.  
  
The man was apparently still engrossed in reading. “You don’t seem the kind to make friends easily,” he said  casually.  
  
The calm and self-assured manner in which the man picked apart his life made something burn deep inside John's chest. What right did he have to meddle with John's life, to question him and threaten him, to play some sort of game with him that John didn't understand? He wasn't some puppet on a string that the man could do with as he pleased. “Are we done?” John asked abruptly.  
  
Finally raising his head to look straight into John’s eyes, the man replied, “You tell me.”  
  
John cocked his head to the side and tried to quench the red-hot anger coursing though him. He turned his back on the man and started to walk back towards the door. Enough was enough.  
  
Putting the parchment back into his pockets, the man said, “I imagine people have already warned you to stay away from him, but I can see from your left hand that’s not going to happen.”  
  
John stopped dead, and his shoulders tensed. He should just keep walking, get out of this house and get away from the man. What he most decidedly should _not_ do was to listen to the man's taunts. He shook his head angrily and, despite knowing better, turned back around to face the man. Through clenched teeth, he asked, “My what?”  
  
Nodding calmly towards John’s left hand, the man demanded, “Show me.”  
  
John was still furious, at the man and, possibly even more so, at himself for not being able to just walk away. It was a trick, surely, just another move in the man's carefully calculated game, but what if he did know something important? John raised his left hand and bent it at the elbow, but he did not move closer. If the man wanted a look, he would have to come to him, John decided. After a second, the man strolled forward and casually hooked the staff's delicately carved ivory handle over his right wrist while he reached for John’s hand. Instinctively, John pulled his hand back a little. “Don’t,” he said tensely.  
  
The man lowered his head and raised his eyebrows, smiling smugly as if to say _Nice try, but we both know that I am much better at this game than you are_. John very reluctantly lowered his hand, holding it out flat with the palm down. The man took it in both of his own hands and looked at it closely. “Remarkable,” he stated.  
  
Snatching his hand away, John asked, “What is?”  
  
Turning and moving a few paces away, the man let his gaze wander, seemingly lost in thought. “Most people blunder round this city, and all they see are streets and shops and carriages. When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield.” Turning back to John again, the man said with a smile, “You have seen it already, haven’t you?”  
  
“What’s wrong with my hand?” John insisted.  
  
The man's voice was cold and indifferent. “You have a shaking sickness in your left hand. Your sister thinks it’s due to the injuries you sustained during the wildling ambush. She thinks you are haunted by the memories of your fighting.”  
  
John tried to keep still despite the fury and worry coursing through him. Willing his voice to not rise to a shout, he demanded, “By the gods, who _are_ you?” The man would clearly not answer that question, he just looked at John knowingly. John fixed his gaze straight ahead, pointedly not looking at the man's face. “How do you know that?”  
  
The man continued as if John hadn't interrupted him at all. “She’s got it the wrong way round. You’re prepared to fight right now and your hand is perfectly steady.”  
  
John’s eyes flickered involuntarily towards his hand before returning to stare ahead of himself, his face set and struggling to hold back his anger.  
  
“You’re not haunted by the fighting, John… you miss it.” The man leaned closer, and reluctantly John’s eyes rose up to meet his. “Welcome back,” the man whispered, then turned and walked towards the door, jauntily twirling his ebony staff. “Time to choose a side, John,” he said over his shoulder, and then he was gone.  
  
John held out his left hand in front of him and studied it closely. It wasn't trembling at all.


	5. The morning after

John stood alone in the richly decorated room, silently wondering who the mysterious man had been. _The closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having: An enemy_. Those had been his words, but they left John none the wiser. The man had not worn any sigil on his expensive attire, which would normally lead John to assume he was a rich merchant or maybe a high-ranking guild member, but the man's commanding presence made John wonder whether he had deliberately chosen to disguise himself. How he had managed to get to know all those things about his own life, John couldn't even begin to fathom, but it left him with a deep sense of unease. Sellswords or secrets, there was nothing that couldn't be bought in King's Landing, and the currency wasn't always money – whispered words and promised favors could be just as valuable, and often even more so than gold dragons and silver stags.  
  
Shaking his head as if to rid it from these worrying thoughts, John stepped resolutely out of the room and descended the stairs to the common room. Neither the woman who had called herself Anthea nor the mysterious man were anywhere to be seen, so John quickly left the establishment and directed his steps towards Harla's house. Despite the lateness of the hour, there were still quite a few people on the streets, but none of them seemed to take the least bit of interest in him. Nobody obviously spying on him, then – John felt the knot of worry in his stomach loosen a bit. Considering the fact that the man had known about him having a sister, it seemed likely that he also knew where they lived, but if there was even the slightest chance that he didn't, John would gladly do anything necessary to keep it that way. After a long and winding walk through the labyrinth of streets that he had come to know so well in the past weeks and months, he finally arrived at the doorstep. With one last look left and right, he slipped inside and bolted the door. Nobody had followed him, of that he was fairly certain. Whether that meant he was safe, was another question entirely.  
  
The house was quiet and dark, the last embers of the cooking fire glowing in the hearth. Looking around, John briefly closed his eyes, took a deep breath and told himself to finally relax. Some of the tension left his shoulders, and he suddenly felt terribly tired. Careful to avoid the creaking floorboards, he headed silently to his room. It looked utterly unchanged from when he had left it that afternoon, and yet it felt different. It should have felt safe, but to him it only felt empty. Remote. Foreign. With a deep sigh, he sat on the edge of the straw mattress of the bed, arms resting on his thighs, head in his hands, staring unseeingly at the wooden floor and wondering where Sherlock had gone after leaving the house on Brick Row. Should he tell him about his meeting with the mysterious man? Yes, he'd drop by the Street of Flour on the morrow, maybe Sherlock would be back home by then, or otherwise he could leave a message with Madam Hudson. And he really should refuse the room-share, surely that was the sensible thing to do. Threats and clandestine meetings with powerful strangers were decidedly not the furnishings he had been looking for in his new quarters, after all. Most people wouldn't even consider moving in with a man who seemed to attract trouble like the flame attracts the moth. So why was he still thinking about it? No, no. He wasn't thinking about it any more, he would refuse the room-share, and that was it, then. It was decided. Definitely.  
  
When John woke up the next morning, the room was unusually bright. Looking towards the window, he realized with a start that he hadn't been woken by one of his nightmares. Instead, his sleep had apparently been deep and untroubled. He quickly got up and dressed in his usual pair of plain brown breeches and belted gray tunic. When he went into the kitchen to break his fast, the children were nowhere in sight; Harla was cutting up carrots and turnips at the table, greeting him with a warm smile. “Good morrow, dear brother. I hope you enjoyed your night out...”  
  
“It wasn't what you think it was, Harla.” After filling his cup with some water and putting a chunk of bread and some hard cheese on his plate, John sat down at the table next to his sister, hoping to be able to eat in blessed silence without her questioning him about last night's events. He didn't want to worry her needlessly. Fortunately, she was preoccupied with something else. “John, a young boy came by this morning. He had a message for you.”  
  
Pulling a small scroll of parchment from her apron's pocket, she gave it to him with a questioning look. Carefully ignoring it, John took the scroll and turned it over in his hands. It was tied with a bit of string and bore no seal or mark. Shrugging, John opened the scroll.  
  
 _The Two Old Bakers Inn. Come at once if convenient. If inconvenient, come anyway. SH_  
  
Below, another line had been hastily added: _Could be dangerous._  
  
Shaking his head, John suppressed a smile. Well, it was a good thing he had wanted to drop by anyway – he might as well do it right now. Quickly, he finished his breakfast and was already on his way out when he stopped in mid-stride, remembering the events of last night and Sherlock's words... _dangerous_... it wouldn't do to be caught unprepared again. Turning back, John headed for his room and dug out the dagger he kept hidden at the bottom of his chest. Drawing the blade out of its leather scabbard, he gave it an appraising look. The castle-forged steel from Winterfell's smithy glimmered coldly in the late morning light, but the wooden handgrip felt warm and familiar in his hands. John was well aware that ordinary citizens were not allowed to carry weapons in public, especially not blades made from castle-forged steel, and he'd likely end up in the Red Keep's dungeons if the gold cloaks found it on him. After sheathing the blade again, he rolled up the right leg of his breeches and strapped the dagger to the inside of his calf. Rolling the fabric of his breeches back down and then standing up, John could feel the reassuring weight of the blade resting solidly against his leg.   
  
The streets were busy at this time of the day. Smallfolk and soldiers, merchants and men-at-arms, lords and ladies, beggars and blacksmiths, traders and tanners, noblemen and novices, street-vendors and sellswords – it seemed like every last person in King's Landing and their dogs, horses, mules and donkeys was on the street and in John's way. John pressed on through the hustle and bustle, and breathed a silent sigh of relief when he finally stepped through the door of the Two Old Bakers Inn. Giving Madam Hudson behind the counter a brief nod, he went straight up the staircase to knock at the door to Sherlock's quarters. When nobody came to open the door, he knocked again, but still there was no answer. Curiosity getting the better of him, he turned the doorknob to find the door unlocked. Opening it carefully, he peered inside, but he didn't see Sherlock in the sitting room. After hesitating for a moment, John stepped inside and shut the door.  He took a few steps into the room and found Sherlock in the supping room to the left. He was wearing a dark-gray robe today, and he was sitting in front of the supping room table, elbows resting on his knees and fingers steepled in front of his chin, staring at five dead rats meticulously laid out side by side. Their outstretched feet were pinned to the table with long, thin needles. John cleared his throat. Twice. Sherlock remained as still as a statue. “Well?” John asked finally. Sherlock blinked once, but otherwise did not move a muscle. “I got your message. You asked me to come,” John reminded him. “I'm assuming it's important.”  
  
Sherlock did not take his eyes off the dead rats, but at least he finally deigned to speak. “Oh, yes, of course. Could you pass me the forceps?”  
  
“The forceps?” John asked incredulously.  
  
Sherlock still didn't look at him. “Yes. They're on the sitting room table.”  
  
“Madam Hudson could have brought you the forceps,” John reminded him. _Or the messenger boy, for that matter._  
  
“Yes, she's downstairs. I tried shouting but she didn't hear,” Sherlock explained.  
  
John could feel his temper beginning to rise, and his left hand clenched into a fist and unclenched involuntarily. He wondered whether this was another kind of test; was Sherlock trying to see how far he could push until John finally lost his temper and pushed back? “I _was_ the other side of King's Landing,” John remarked dryly.  
  
Sherlock seemed completely unperturbed as he said mildly, “There was no hurry.”  
  
John glared at Sherlock, but when this did not produce any effect, he walked over to the table in question and, after pushing aside some scrolls in a language he had never even seen before, finally found the forceps. They were small and delicate, like something a goldsmith might use. However, instead of bringing them directly to Sherlock, John took them and then walked over to one of the sitting-room windows, staring at the busy street below. There was no sign of the sellswords or Anthea.  
  
“What's wrong?” Sherlock asked.  
  
“I met a friend of yours,” John replied without looking away from the street.  
  
“A _friend_?” Sherlock clearly sounded confused and possibly also worried.   
  
“An enemy,” John clarified.  
  
“Oh.” Sherlock seemed to relax at John's clarification. “Which one?”  
  
John briefly wondered what strange life one had to live to be bewildered by the mention of a friend, but relieved by the mention of an enemy. “Your _arch_ -enemy, according to him.” Finally turning his gaze back to Sherlock, John asked, “How can _you_ have an arch-enemy?”  
  
Sherlock at last looked up from the table and narrowed his eyes at John. “Did he offer you money to spy on me?”  
  
“Yes,” John replied.  
  
“Did you take it?” Sherlock asked, his voice not accusing, but simply curious.  
  
“No.”  
  
Sherlock scowled in disapproval. “Pity. We could have split the fee. Think it through next time.”  
  
“Who is he?” John asked.  
  
“The most dangerous man you've ever met, and not my problem right now,” Sherlock replied in a soft voice. Then, he looked back at the rats and held out his left hand with the palm facing up. “The forceps.”  
  
John gave a small sigh and walked up to him, dropping the forceps into his hand. Without lifting his gaze, let alone thanking John, Sherlock removed a long, thin knife that ended in a sharp, pointed blade from his pockets with his right hand. Lifting the fur of the leftmost rat's belly with the forceps, he inserted the sharp blade under the skin. With a single swift motion, he cut the body open from belly to chin, and then peeled the skin apart to reveal the glistening organs. His gaze quickly roamed over the splayed out body before repeating the whole procedure on the second rat.  
  
“So, what's this about – the gold cloak's murder?” John wondered. Sherlock silently moved to work on the third rat. “Why are there five dead rats on the table?”   
  
“They died from poisoning, ”Sherlock replied, moving on to the fourth rat.  
  
When Sherlock did not care to elaborate, John prompted, “And who poisoned them?”  
  
Sherlock was now rapidly dissecting the last remaining rat. “I did. Obviously.” After having finished with the rats, Sherlock turned slightly to look directly at John. “With the poisoned wine that was used to kill the gold cloak.”  
  
John frowned. That certainly was not the explanation he had been expecting. “But... how did _you_ get any of that poisoned wine?”  
  
With a huff, Sherlock stood up and walked over to a low-backed chair made of polished ebony, which stood to the right of the fireplace in the sitting room. The graceful curves of the chair's arms and legs were as black as the leather cushions on the backrest and the seat. Sitting down, Sherlock said in a derisive voice, “Oh, perhaps I should mention: I didn't kill the gold cloak. Nor do I know the murderer.”  
  
John had turned to follow Sherlock towards the fireplace, but stopped short at that remark. “I never said you did.”  
  
“Why not? Given the fact that I have the murder weapon, it's a perfectly logical assumption,” Sherlock insisted.  
  
“Do people usually assume you're the murderer?” John wondered.  
  
“Now and then, yes,” Sherlock replied with a smirk. In one graceful, fluid movement, he went from sitting to actually _perching_ on the chair. It didn't look stable, and it certainly didn't look very comfortable to John.  
  
“All right.” John walked over and sat down on the red-cushioned chair opposite to Sherlock. “So, how _did_ you get the poisoned wine?”  
  
Sherlock gave him a smug smile. “I appropriated the gold cloak's cup when we were at his house. There were still enough traces of the poisoned wine in it for my experiment.”  
  
John thought back to when he had been at the house with Sherlock on the previous night. He remembered that Sherlock had realized something but not told him or Lestrade what it was, and then he had leaned over the table and peered out of the small window. His long cloak had blocked their view of the table – the table upon which the two cups had been sitting. John smiled as he finally realized the reason for Sherlock's abrupt departure.  
  
“And _why_ would you poison five rats?” John asked incredulously.  
  
“To determine which poison the murderer used. I gave one of those rats a sample of the poisoned wine that was used to kill the gold cloak. Then I administered a known poison to each of the other rats: The strangler, nightshade, sweetsleep, and heart's bane. There are, of course, many other poisons, but none of them act fast enough or leave the victim's body apparently unharmed. The only rat with a similar set and timecourse of symptoms was the one that received heart's bane. It is not a common poison and difficult to prepare, but not as rare as the strangler. There are only a few people in King's Landing who will sell it to you – if you have the coin – and a few more who can supply you with the necessary ingredients to make if yourself. I have already given the names to Lestrade for interrogation.”  
  
John looked at Sherlock, then towards the five dead rats laid out on the supping room table, then back at Sherlock. He was dumbfounded. “That's brilliant.”   
  
Suddenly, Sherlock got up from his chair and walked over to pick up his cloak from the peg next to the door.  
  
“So... why are you telling _me_ all this?” John wondered.  
  
“Madam Hudson took my skull,” Sherlock replied with some regret and resignation in his voice.  
  
John looked at the mantlepiece. The skull was, indeed, missing. “So I'm simply filling in for your skull?” John asked with more than just a trace of annoyance.   
  
Sherlock fastened the cloak on his shoulders. “Relax, you're doing fine.” There was a hint of a smile in his voice. John, however, was frowning. Had Sherlock made him walk all the way from his sister's to the Two Old Baker's Inn just to serve as a replacement for a bloody piece of decoration? Apparently, he had, and what was worse, now that John had dutifully fulfilled his role, Sherlock was leaving him behind. Again.  
  
To John's annoyance, Sherlock then prompted, “Well?”  
  
“Well what?” John asked back sharply.  
  
“Well, you could just keep _sitting_ there,” Sherlock replied, wrinkling his nose in distaste.  
  
John looked up at him questioningly. “What, you want me to come with you?”  
  
“I like company when I go out, and I think better when I talk aloud. The skull just attracts attention, so...” Sherlock trailed off.  
  
John tried to picture Sherlock walking on the streets, talking excitedly to his skull, and a fond smile briefly crossed his face. However, he still hesitated to get up from his chair: There was still another matter that he needed to discuss.   
  
“Is there a problem?” Sherlock wondered.  
  
“Yes, that gold cloak Salleon,” John told him.  
  
“What about him?” Sherlock asked, exasperated.  
  
John looked closely at Sherlock. “He said... you get excited by this. You enjoy it.”  
  
Sherlock gave a brief, tight-lipped smile. “And I said dangerous, and here you are.” He turned around, and without a backward glance, Sherlock left the room and made his way down the stairs.   
  
John tapped his fingers on the handle of his staff for a moment, making up his mind. With a sighed “Damn it” he quickly got up and followed Sherlock out onto the street, staff clicking sharply on the pavement as he hastened to catch up.


	6. The Great Sept of Baelor

John could easily discern Sherlock's prominent cloak-clad figure striding determinedly among the many others who were out on the busy Street of Flour. In the full midday sun, the mess of dark brown curls crowning his head was streaked with auburn. When John had finally caught up with Sherlock, he fell into step beside him. “Where are we going?”  
  
“The Great Sept of Baelor,” Sherlock answered.  
  
John gave Sherlock a doubtful look. “Do you think he would be stupid enough to go there? Why would he do that?”  
  
“Because he's an idiot,” Sherlock said. John looked taken aback. Seeing John's startled expression, Sherlock quickly added, “No, no, no, don't look like that. Practically everybody is.”  
  
John frowned, but then decided it was probably for the best not to pursue that particular line of thought any further. “At the victim's house, you said the murderer had a strong belief in the Faith of the Seven. Do you think he will go to the Sept to confess and seek absolution?”  
  
Sherlock shrugged. “I doubt that he would be _that_ stupid. But he might need reassurance after what he did, the feeling of being in control. People are creatures of habit, John. Our murderer is no exception to that.”  
  
They soon arrived at Aegon's Square at the foot of Visenya's Hill, where the Street of Sisters crossed the Kingsroad. On the top of Visenya's Hill stood The Great Sept, its golden dome glittering in the midday sunlight. Sherlock and John climbed the cobbled road up to the bright white plaza surrounding the seven-sided sept. In the middle of the plaza, the statue of Baelor the Blessed stood tall and serene upon its plinth. Surrounding the dome, seven crystal towers rose high into the clear blue sky. Sherlock walked straight up to one of seven doors leading inside the sept. John had never before been inside, but he followed Sherlock without hesitation.  
  
Inside, he found himself in a sort of entrance hall, walking beneath suspended globes of colored leaded glass. To his right, John spotted a pair of gilded double doors which led them into the main sept. When he entered, the sheer size of it was enough to take John's breath away, but he was even more amazed by the dazzling brightness and the flood of light and colors that washed over him. Seven broad aisles met beneath the dome of glass, gold, and crystal. In the corners, altars made of white marble were set about with large, white candles. The floors, too, were made of white marble, and the leaded, colored glass in the seven great windows painted the walls and floor with bright light. The vastness of it all made him feel very, very small.  
  
Below the windows, seven statues carved from white marble and inlaid with gold and glittering precious gems stood on ornately decorated plinths. Countless worshippers stood in front of the statues and altars, or sat on the wooden pews set between the aisles, praying silently or in soft murmurs. Many worshippers were lighting candles or placing other offerings on low tables in the front and to the sides of the statues. Several septons wandered to and fro, often approached by worshippers, with whom they then prayed or conversed quietly. The low murmur of their hushed voices blended with the sweet smell of incense to create an air of peace and tranquility.  
  
“How familiar are you with the Faith of the Seven?” Sherlock whispered as he started to slowly walk towards the middle of the sept, where a seven-pointed crystal star hung on a golden chain from the top of the dome.  
  
“I pray to the old gods of the North, but at Winterfell, there was a small sept, which Lord Eddard Stark built for the Lady Catelyn,” John answered just as quietly. As he moved along with Sherlock, John carefully mimicked the respectful, measured pace of the other worshippers.  
  
“Each of these statues depicts one of the seven faces of God: The Father, the Mother, the Warrior, the Maiden, the Smith, the Crone and the Stranger.” Sherlock pointed at the statue of a bearded man who carried a pair of scales in one hand and a sword in the other. “The Father represents judgment, and is prayed to for justice.” Sherlock pointed at another statue, a gently smiling woman with a small child upon her arms. “The Mother represents motherhood and nurturing. She is prayed to for fertility and compassion.” The third statue Sherlock pointed out was of a man in full body armor, carrying a greatsword. “The Warrior represents strength in battle and is prayed to for courage and victory.” The fourth statue depicted a young woman with a bird sitting in her cupped hands. “The Maiden represents innocence and chastity, and is prayed to to protect a maiden's virtue,” Sherlock explained. The fifth statue showed a man holding a hammer in one hand while the other hand held a piece of metal on an anvil. “The Smith represents craft and labor. He is prayed to when work needs to be done, and for strength.” Sherlock's gaze flicked briefly to John's bad leg. “The Smith is also known to repair things that have been broken.” Next, Sherlock pointed to the sixth statue, which depicted an elderly woman holding a lantern. “The Crone represents wisdom and is prayed to for guidance.”  
  
The last statue was very curious to John's eye. It showed neither man nor woman, merely a hooded figure draped in billowing folds of cloth. Nothing of the face was visible, except for the pair of bright-glowing eyes. The sight filled John with a sense of unease, and he noticed that there was only one worshipper in front of this altar, a pretty young woman with long raven-black hair flowing down her slender back. Sherlock seemed to sense John's unease, and quirked an eyebrow. “The Stranger represents death and the unknown. Most people do not seek favor from him.”  
  
They now stood directly under the seven-pointed star, and the midday light streaming in through the dome shone brightly onto its crystal facets, bathing the white marble floor in rainbows of color. It reminded John of the sunlight filtering through the thick red canopy of Winterfell's heart tree as the wind whispered through its rustling leaves, and how the pool at its feet had glittered when the rays of light danced across it. Inside the sept, there was no wind, no smell of moist earth and damp leaves, only the cloying sweetness of burning incense. And there were no moss-covered stones to sit on, only and cold, white marble, and hard, dead wood.  
  
Sherlock walked a few steps towards the aisle that led to the altar between the Mother's and the Father's statue, and took a seat on the last of the many wooden pews facing the Father, hands clasped in front of him and head bowed as if in silent prayer. John sat down next to him, leaning his staff against the seat. “What exactly are we looking for?” John whispered.  
  
“Anybody who behaves suspiciously,” Sherlock replied without lifting his head. John copied Sherlock's pose and surreptitiously glanced towards the other worshippers in front of them. None looked suspicious to his eyes. Not knowing how long they'd spend in the sept, John settled in for the wait, his gaze furtively passing over the many worshippers that came and went. At one point he caught sight of Septon Michael, who made his way across the sept in unhurried, contemplative steps. When he caught sight of John, he stopped and raised his eyebrows inquisitively. In answer to his unspoken question, John merely gave Sherlock a sideways look before flicking his gaze back again. A bemused smile tugged at Septon Michael's lips, and with a brief nod to John, he resumed his duties. After making his rounds, Michael gave John one last look and disappeared through the double doors into the entrance hall.  
  
Soon afterwards, John suddenly sensed Sherlock move slightly next to him, and in the next instant he felt Sherlock's warm breath whisper against his left ear. “Look at the young fair-haired man in the brown tunic eight rows ahead of us. Did you notice anything peculiar about him?” John's frowned as he tried to remember, but finally he shook his head and murmured, “He just came in, walked up and down the aisle for a bit and then sat down. That doesn't make him our murderer, right?”  
  
“There are tan lines on his face and neck,” Sherlock explained in a voice so quiet that John had to strain to hear every rapidly spoken word, “indicating that he wears a helmet and spends a considerable amount of time outside. Age and clothing suggest he's neither a squire nor a household guard. A member of the City Watch, then. A gold cloak, just as our murder victim. When he entered the sept, he immediately came over here, but then he seemed unsure where to take a seat. He paced anxiously up and down the aisle, but did not sit down until that middle-aged woman – a spice-trader's wife, no children, two cats, had fried fingerfish and honeyed porridge for breakfast – got up and left. When she stood up, he visibly relaxed and after she had left, he immediately took a seat in the pew she had just vacated. He needs to sit where he always sits. A creature of habit, then, someone who needs to reassure himself that everything is still the same, that nothing has changed, that he is still in control. You can see that he's fervently praying now.”  
  
From where he was sitting, John could only make out the back of the young man's head, so he gave Sherlock an inquisitive look and got up. He walked up to the Father's altar, dropped two half-pennies into the collection box and lit a candle. On his way back, John could see that everything Sherlock had pointed out was true. The young man's eyes were closed and he held a small, seven-pointed star on a chain, which he repeatedly touched to his forehead and lips, then continued to slowly and carefully pass each bead of the chain through his fingers as his mouth moved in silent prayer. His movements were measured and precise, their rhythm never wavering. John again took up his place next to Sherlock, and together they waited.  
  
When the sept's bells announced the third hour after noon, the young man stood up abruptly and quickly walked down the aisle to leave the sept. Without a warning, Sherlock, too, slipped out of their pew and John, caught off-guard by this sudden burst of action, had to hurry to catch up with him. When they stepped out of the sept, John quickly caught sight of the young man hurrying across the plaza. Quickly, they set out to follow him as he continued his way down the cobbled street to Aegon's Square, where he took off at a brisk pace along the Street of Sisters. They hadn't walked for long, when the young man turned off right into one of the many smaller cross-streets, and John and Sherlock had barely time to catch him casting worried glances up and down the alley before he disappeared into a tavern.  
  
When they entered the tavern, the young man was nowhere to be seen. It was still early in the day, and the dim-lit room was mostly occupied by some weary looking men who did not even bother to look up from their wine cups as John and Sherlock entered. The small windows were covered in grime, and the little daylight that filtered through did nothing to dispel the gloom. There was a row of booths to one side of the room, and long tables with benches on the other. Most of the occupants, however, sat directly at the counter at the back of the room. To the right of the counter, John spotted a doorway, presumably leading to the kitchen. Sherlock took a seat in one of the booths, receding into its shadow. He eyed the back of the room with curiosity. “Do you want a drink? You may as well drink, we might have a long wait,” he said.  
  
John nodded curtly, then turned and made his way to the counter, where a middle-aged serving wench was cleaning cups and tankards with tired movements. When he returned to their booth with two cups of wine, he took a seat opposite Sherlock and placed one of the cups in front of him. Sherlock gave it a quick glance but quickly returned his gaze to the doorway to the right of the counter. Taking a sip from his cup, John grimaced. The household guards certainly hadn't gotten the best vintages back at Winterfell, but compared to this vile drink it had been as sweet as any Arbor gold. “Shouldn't we be checking whether he left through the back door?”  
  
“Considering the location and layout of this place, there is likely only one other way out, and that is through the cellar trap door. If he felt safe enough to come in through the front door, why shouldn't he leave the same way?” Sherlock asked.  
  
John turned to look at the counter behind him. “So what's he doing back there?”  
  
“Don't stare,” Sherlock hissed.  
  
John turned back to glare at Sherlock. “ _You're_ staring.”  
  
“We can't _both_ stare,” Sherlock replied, not taking his eyes off the doorway.  
  
Sighing, John almost took another sip of his wine before remembering the taste of it. Putting his cup back down, he gave Sherlock a long, thoughtful look. “So, what exactly did your highborn self do to get an _arch_ -enemy? Did your family forget to invite him to a tourney or were you just your usual charming self during a feast with him?”  
  
After several moments apparently spent lost in thought, or maybe deliberately ignoring John's question, Sherlock finally turned back to him with a startled look in his eyes. “I'm sorry?”  
  
“You know, _ordinary_ people don't have arch-enemies. Doesn't happen,” John said quietly.  
  
“Doesn't it? Sounds a bit dull,” Sherlock replied in a bored voice, returning his gaze to the doorway at the back.  
  
“So who did I meet?” John asked. For some reason Sherlock seemed unusually reluctant to talk about the mysterious dark-haired man.  
  
Instead of meeting his eye and answering the question, Sherlock kept looking at the doorway. “What do ordinary people have then, in their ordinary lives?”  
  
“Friends,” John said with a shrug. Now Sherlock did look at him. “People they know,” John continued. “People they like; people they don't like.” He paused briefly. “Lovers, betrothed ones, brides, wives… ,” he trailed off.  
  
Sherlock hastily returned his gaze to the doorway. “Yes, well, as I was saying – dull.”  
  
“You're not betrothed, then?” John asked.  
  
“Betrothals,” Sherlock said, “are not really my area. I consider myself married to my work.”  
  
John hummed an acknowledgment and let his gaze wander around the room, mulling that over. He knew that _he_ ought to find a woman to marry and settle down with, but first he needed to carve out a place for himself here in King's Landing. Of course, marriage was not a path that all men took: Septons led a life of celibacy, and the men of the Night's Watch who defended the northern border of the realm also vowed to never take a wife. Sherlock evidently saw himself amongst those who abstained from anything that might distract them from their vocation.  
  
John had just finished his cup (with great reluctance, but he had decided that both of them not drinking did look a bit suspicious), when the young man from the sept suddenly strode through the doorway at the back with a stricken, panicked look in his eyes. Hesitating briefly, the young man looked back through the doorway at whatever lay beyond before his gaze turned and swept over the tavern's customers. Apparently making up his mind, he swiftly walked across the room to the front door. As soon as he was outside, Sherlock jumped up and went after him, John close on his heels. Carefully keeping their distance, they pursued the young man back to the Street of Sisters, where he turned left heading towards the hill of Rhaenys. After almost loosing sight of him twice in the crowded late-afternoon street, Sherlock shortened the distance to try to stay closer to him.  
  
Unfortunately, it seemed that luck was not on their side, because suddenly the young man turned and there was no way to avoid being seen by him. The young man's eyes widened in surprise and for a second he froze, before quickly breaking into a run and disappearing left down a narrow side alley. Sherlock muttered a curse under his breath, but instead of giving chase, he stopped and closed his eyes, brows furrowed in deep concentration, with his fingertips pressing into his temples. _Gods be good, what's he doing now? We're going to lose him._ John had to push down the urge to just run headlong after the young man.  
  
After a few frantic moments, Sherlock abruptly opened his eyes and hissed “The East Barracks”. Then he chased down the street at such a pace that all John could do was to desperately try not to fall behind. However, instead of following the young man down the narrow alley, Sherlock continued to run along the Street of Sisters before suddenly veering right into a small lane. Startled by the abrupt change of direction, John nearly missed the lane, earning him an impatient “Come on, John!” from Sherlock. Left and right they hurried, running through tiny courtyards and jumping over thick stone walls. Soon John was panting hard and his heart was racing as his feet pounded on the packed-dirt pavement of winding lanes and crooked alleys. Ahead of him he could see Sherlock's billowing black cloak disappear behind yet another corner. Trying to catch up, he took the corner at full speed and barely managed to halt in time to avoid crashing into Sherlock, who had the young man pinned face-first against a crumbling brick wall.  
  
“Please, don't hurt me,” the young man groaned as Sherlock twisted his arms behind his back. “I beg you, I already told Allaquo that I don't have the money.”  
  
Sherlock frowned, but he didn't loosen his iron grip. John gave him a questioning look, but Sherlock was completely focused on the young man. Suddenly, like slipping into a different skin, Sherlock's whole posture changed; he stood taller and straighter, and his lips turned into a menacing smile that looked even more worrying than his cold, hard eyes. “You realize that Allaquo is disappointed, don't you? He is _very_ cross with you.”  
  
“Please, have mercy,” the young man sobbed. “I'll pay him as soon as I can, I promise.”  
  
When Sherlock abruptly released him, the young man barely managed to keep standing as he turned around, eyes wide with fear. Sherlock took a step back and carefully brushed some dust off his sleeves with an air of easy indifference. “He thinks you need a little... incentive.” Sherlock smiled cruelly again. “John, why don't you show our friend here what we do with filth that doesn't pay its debts?” When he didn't immediately comply, Sherlock looked pointedly at John's right leg. How did Sherlock even know he had a weapon strapped to his calf? He couldn't honestly want John to threaten some poor sod who, as far as John could tell, did not at all seem like a cold-blooded murderer.  
  
His hesitation earned John a fractional tilt of Sherlock's head and a raised eyebrow. Tiny movements, really, but they were enough to very clearly convey that he would not tolerate second-guessing of his orders. He expected obedience. John wasn't sure what game Sherlock was playing this time, but gods help him, he trusted Sherlock's judgment. He'd play along if that was what Sherlock wanted. Slowly, he removed the dagger from its leather sheath. Gripping it tightly with his left hand, he stepped closer to the young man, whose gaze was fixed on the sharp blade's tip as he started to shake from head to toe.  
  
“No, no please don't,” he gasped as John pushed him back against the wall, one hand across his chest and the other holding the knife to the man's throat. “I, I can get Allaquo his money by the end of the week. Just give me a chance. And I swear by the Father that I'll never play cards ever again.”  
  
John looked over at Sherlock, who nodded briefly. “That will do,” he said curtly. “Release him, John.”  
  
When John let go of him, the young man's legs gave out and he slid ungracefully down the wall onto the dirty floor. John raised his eyebrows and shot Sherlock a quizzical look.  
  
“Gambling. That's what he does in the back room of the tavern.” Sherlock seemed disappointed as he looked from John to the distraught young man at his feet. “How boring.”  
  
John had just opened his mouth to ask who, then, was their murderer when he suddenly heard heavy footsteps and the unmistakable clank of chainmail. A quick look around the corner showed that two gold cloaks were rapidly approaching. “Sherlock, we've got company,” John warned. He first looked at the dagger clenched in his hand, then at the trembling young man whose clammy skin looked like it had been drained of all color. Seven hells, the gold cloaks probably wouldn't be pleased to see one of their own like that.  
  
“Got your breath back?” Sherlock teased with a smile in his voice.  
  
John hastily tucked the blade back into its scabbard and braced himself for another mad run. He flashed Sherlock a grin. “Ready when you are.”  
  
***  
  
By the time John and Sherlock finally arrived back at the Two Old Bakers Inn, dusk had fallen. They hadn't stopped running until the door of Sherlock's lodgings had been firmly shut behind them. Leaning heavily against the wall next to the door, John tried to catch his breath and calm his rapidly beating heart. He could feel the blood pounding in his ears, and the chase left him feeling giddy. Next to him, Sherlock seemed to be in a similar state, with his face flushed and his breath coming in short puffs.  
  
“Well, that was ridiculous”, John said with his chest still heaving. “That was the most ridiculous thing I've ever done.”  
  
“And you pray to gods that live in trees”, Sherlock replied.  
  
John couldn't help the giggle that bubbled up inside him. “That isn't just me,” he panted. Still trying quite unsuccessfully to suppress his laughter, he added, “Why aren't we back at the sept?”  
  
Sherlock's face turned more serious. “Oh, it's too late now. It was a long shot anyway,” he said, waving his hand dismissively.  
  
“So what were we doing there?” John asked incredulously.  
  
“Oh, just passing the time.” Sherlock looked pointedly at John. “And proving a point.”  
  
John frowned in confusion. “What point?”  
  
“You.” Sherlock opened their door again and shouted down the staircase, “Madam Hudson! John _will_ take the room upstairs.”  
  
“Says who?” John questioned.  
  
Sherlock looked at the door as he answered, “Says the man on the stairs.”  
  
John turned to see Septon Michael slowly climbing up the steps to them. When he had arrived on the doorstep, he smiled at John and held out his right hand. To his surprise, John saw that Michael was holding his walking staff. “I think you forgot this at the sept,” he said warmly.  
  
John frowned in confusion. Startled, he looked back at Sherlock, who was practically beaming, his mouth stretched in a ridiculously wide smile that made the corners of his eyes crinkle. John turned back to Michael. “Er, thank you,” he muttered as he gave the walking staff another look. He took it from Michael's outstretched hand and, with more conviction, repeated, “Thank you”. He smiled at Michael, who simply nodded before retreating back downstairs.  
  
John closed the door and followed Sherlock into the sitting room, the staff forgotten in his hands. He noticed that the rats on the supping room table were gone – poor Madam Hudson. Although on second thought, John was quite certain that in the past, she had probably encountered worse in Sherlock's quarters. Sherlock took a seat in his dark mahogany chair and folded his hands under his chin, his gaze turning distant. As much as John wanted to sit down and rest a bit from their chase across the city, he also knew he really should be heading back to his sister's. He didn't want to cause her worry. And considering how he had practically been taken prisoner last night by Sherlock's self-proclaimed arch-enemy and his henchmen (and woman), it seemed prudent not to walk around the city too late after nightfall. However, he first had something to say. John cleared his throat to get Sherlock's attention from wherever that brilliant mind had currently wandered off to. “You're right, you know,” he said.  
  
Sherlock didn't move an inch, and John briefly wondered whether it was unwise to disturb Sherlock when he was obviously thinking very hard about something, when Sherlock announced, “Of course I'm right. About what?”  
  
“Me,” John said. “Taking the room upstairs, I mean. I'll come by on the morrow to bring my belongings, if that's all right with you.”  
  
Sherlock simply gave an absent-minded hum that sounded faintly like agreement to John. Shrugging his shoulders, John turned towards the door. “Well, good night then,” he said over his shoulder as he opened the door.  
  
The walk to his sister's was surprisingly uneventful after all that happened to him over the past two days. When he let himself into the house, John could hear his sister's voice ushering the children to bed upstairs. He set the walking staff resolutely in the corner next to the door. After pouring himself a cup of water from the clay jug on the kitchen table, he sat down to wait for his sister to return downstairs. When Harla finally came into the kitchen, she looked tired and the tightness around her eyes and mouth told John that she was worried. “Where have you been? You don't usually miss lunch _and_ supper...”  
  
John looked down at the cup in his hands, slowly turning it while thinking about what to tell her. It was probably for the best to just keep it simple, he decided. “Remember that septon I told you about? The one I met on my journey from Winterfell to here? Well, he found somebody for me to share quarters with. I'm going to move out on the morrow.”  
  
Harla's eyes widened in surprise. “That's wonderful news, John.” She walked over to a shelf that held a variety of flagons and jugs, picking up a cup on the way. “I didn't know you had kept in touch with the septon.” With her back to John, Harla removed the cork from a clay flagon and poured a generous amount of the clear liquid into her cup. After taking a deep sip, she sighed contentedly and turned round to look at John with bright eyes. “I'm glad you've found a place of your own, but I hope you know you'll always be welcome here, dear brother.”  
  
The cup in his hands was empty, but John didn't pour himself more. “I know, Harla. And thank you for letting me stay here for so long. I...” He honestly didn't know how to continue that sentence. _I hate that you drown your sorrows in your winecup. I hate that your husband doesn't care enough to notice. I hate that you broke poor Kella's heart. But most of all, I hate that I can't help you, and I hate that I'm so resentful._  
  
John stood up and walked over to the hall that led to his room upstairs. His gaze flickered briefly to the walking staff in the corner before almost, but not quite, meeting Harla's eye. “I should get some sleep. Morrow's going to be a busy day.” He forced a smile onto his face. “Goodnight, Harla.”


	7. Something to look forward to

John woke up to dull, gray light streaming into his room. He could faintly hear Harla and the children downstairs in the kitchen. He felt drained and clammy, cold sweat still clinging to his damp skin and his nightshirt. Another nightmare, then, though he couldn't recall its contents. He hadn't been able to fall asleep last night, tossing and turning on his straw mattress until he heard Harla's unsteady steps on the stairs. He must have finally drifted off after that, but he didn't feel rested. Sighing, he forced himself out of bed, got dressed and joined the others in the kitchen to break his fast. He tried not to notice the deep shadows under Harla's eyes.   
  
Instead, his gaze rested on the merrily chattering children. He remembered that Toby's tenth nameday was coming up in a few weeks – he'd have to remember to buy him a gift. As the eldest of the five, Toby was always fiercely protective of his younger siblings. Sam was eight, and worshiped his older brother. Wherever Toby went, Sam was sure to follow. Lanna and Lyra were six and – in contrast to the three boys, who had the light-brown hair of their father – they had the same wheat-colored hair as Harla and John... though John knew his would probably soon start to show the first streaks of gray. Although Lanna and Lyra were twins, most people would never have guessed that fact. Lyra's hair was cut short like a boy's, and her knobbly knees and elbows were scabbed more often than not. Lanna liked to wear her long hair in a braid, usually asking Harla or Lyra to weave brightly colored ribbons into it. Robin was the youngest with only four namedays gone by. He was a quiet child with a soft, round face who often played with Lanna, and John was especially fond of him.   
  
The children's happy ramblings as he spooned some porridge into his bowl made John smile, and he listened carefully to the accounts of their previous day's adventures. When Sam had finished the tale of how he and Lyra had slain a huge, fire-breathing dragon (who had been played by Toby), and saved the King and Queen (Robin and Lanna) from its lair, John decided it was time to tell them.  
  
“That was quite an adventure that you had there. You know, I also had a little adventure of my own yesterday. I went to the Great Sept of Baelor with a new friend. As it happens, he's looking for somebody to share quarters with, and I decided to take him up on his offer. So, today I'll be moving my belongings.”  
  
“What were you doing at the sept, Uncle?” Toby asked.  
  
“Well, we were looking for somebody,” John replied.  
  
“And did you find him?” Sam wanted to know.  
  
John paused for a second. “No, no we didn't. But I suppose we shall be looking for him again later today.”  
  
“I don't want you to go away”, Lyra said petulantly, and John could see tears brimming in Robin's blue eyes.  
  
He put on his most reassuring smile. “I'll come and visit you very often, I promise.”  
  
Their faces brightened at that, and Harla soon ushered them out of the kitchen to get them ready for their morning lessons. Harla was adamant that her children learn how to read, write and calculate properly, skills that were uncommon among those who were not of noble birth – or very rich. Sam and Lyra would often complain how useless their exercises were, which reminded John strongly of himself at their age. At the end of the day, when her duties as the maester's assistant were done, John's mother Jayne would teach him and Harla their letters and numbers, even though he would have much preferred to play some more with the other boys or, later, to keep training to become one of the best household guards at Winterfell – like their father Wat, who had died at the Battle of the Bells during Robert's Rebellion. Looking back now, he was very grateful for his mother's strict education.   
  
It didn't take long to pack his few belongings onto the handcart from the shop, and soon he was on his way to the Two Old Bakers Inn. Next to him, Jasper, one of the neighbor's young lads, was happy to pull the cart for the two copper pennies John had offered him as a reward for taking the cart to the Street of Flour and back to the shop afterwards. When they reached the inn, John bade Jasper to wait for him outside. As he entered the inn, he saw Madam Hudson washing up behind the counter. “Good morrow”, John said with a nod in her direction.  
  
Madam Hudson gave him a warm, welcoming smile. “And a good morrow to you, John. Go right up, I'm sure he'll be happy for the interruption.”  
  
John frowned slightly, wondering what might await him upstairs, but he quickly pushed that thought aside. Looking from Madam Hudson to the front door and then back again, he asked, “Do you mind if I bring in a small handcart with my belongings? I don't want it to stand on the street while I move my things upstairs.”  
  
“No, dear, not at all. Bring it in at once,” Madam Hudson replied.  
  
John held the door open while Jasper pulled the cart inside. Madam Hudson came over with two cups, and offered one to Jasper. “Here you go, lad, you must have worked up quite a thirst pulling that heavy thing.” With a smile and a murmured thanks Jasper took his cup and greedily gulped it down. John politely took a sip from his cup as well before putting it back down on the tray she was carrying. “Thank you, Madam Hudson.” With a look up the stairs, he added, “I'll just let Sherlock know I'm here to move in my belongings, then I'll start unpacking.”  
  
Madam Hudson put the tray down on the nearest table before taking two key from a large, jangling iron ring she kept in one of her apron pockets. “The larger key is for the front door, and the smaller one is for your quarters.” She handed them over with a heartfelt smile. “Welcome to the household, John.”  
  
John took the offered keys and carefully put them in his pockets. With another “thank you” he turned to the staircase and made his way up the stairs. Even before he opened the door, he could hear raised voices, and when he stepped inside, he saw that Sherlock had a visitor: The dark-skinned gold cloak whom Sherlock had introduced as Salleon stood in the supping room, glaring at Sherlock. He held a bowl in his right hand, and John could just make out that it contained several white, round-shaped items. Salleon thrust the bowl accusingly in Sherlock's direction. “Are these _human_ eyes?” he hissed angrily.  
  
Sherlock, dressed in a dark-green robe today, was pacing in front of the fireplace. “Put those back!” he commanded sharply.  
  
“They were on the stove!” Salleon's face was scrunched up in a combination of disbelief and disgust.  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes in exasperation. “It's an experiment.”  
  
When John cleared his throat, both Sherlock's and Salleon's heads turned immediately towards him. Salleon looked angry, whereas Sherlock looked... embarrassed?   
  
“Good morrow,” John politely greeted Salleon. “Sherlock, I just wanted to let you know that I'll be carrying my things upstairs now. A neighbor's lad is helping me, and I don't want to keep him waiting.”  
  
“Of course, go ahead, John.” Glancing in Salleon's direction, he added, “We're done here, aren't we?”  
  
Salleon huffed and shot him a dark look. “So you will come, then?”  
  
“Tell Captain Lestrade that I'll come as soon as I see fit.” Sherlock turned his back on Salleon and walked to the window. He let his gaze wander slowly over the street below.  
  
Without another word, Salleon left the bowl on the supping room table and took his leave, making sure to slam the door properly on his way out. John let him stomp down the stairs before he turned back to Sherlock. “So, what was that all about?”  
  
Sherlock turned to look at him, eyes gleaming with excitement. “There's been another one, John!”  
  
 _Another what?_ John wondered. Of course, there was only one thing that could get Sherlock so excited. “Another murder?”  
  
“On Blackfish Lane, right off The Hook. We'll need to go there immediately.” He walked across the sitting room to where John was still standing next to the door and picked up his cloak from the peg.  
  
“Wait, “we”? _I_ haven't even moved in yet!” John protested.  
  
“Madam Hudson can take care of that,” Sherlock said, waving his arm in a dismissive way as he walked out of the room and down the stairs.  
  
For a second, John stood dumbfounded, but he quickly roused himself into action. Starting down the stairs, he called, “Sherlock, wait!”, but of course the lanky bastard didn't stop. Instead, John saw him disappear out of the inn's front door just when he reached the landing. “Right,” John grumbled under his breath as he stepped towards Jasper. Opening the money pouch on his belt, John quickly took out four copper pennies and handed them over. “Jasper, I'm really sorry, but I have to leave right now. Could you just carry up my things and put them in the upstairs bedchamber? I'm sure Madam Hudson can show you where it is. Here's an extra two pennies for your troubles. Thanks for the help, lad.” Already on his way out, he called to Madam Hudson, who had resumed her work behind the counter. “Until later, Madam Hudson.”   
  
And off they were again.  
  
***  
  
John hurried up the street to catch up with Sherlock. _This is soon becoming a habit_ , he thought with a wry smile.  
  
“So, who's dead this time?” he huffed, slightly out of breath, when he caught up with the long-legged bastard.  
  
Sherlock gave a disdainful snort. “I had asked Salleon that same question when he came to fetch me, but unfortunately he got... distracted... by one of my experiments before he could tell me what I wanted to know. That half-wit is under the impression being in the City Watch gives him the right to stick his unsightly nose wherever he wants. I felt it necessary to correct that impression, but apparently Salleon disagrees with my assessment of his duties – not to mention my assessment of his aptitude.”  
  
“Right, your little disagreement could be heard all the way down the stairs,” John said. “How long have you two been such good friends?”  
  
Sherlock gave him an inquisitive look before turning his attention back to the street before them. “The gods have seen it fit to let our paths cross more often than either of us cares to remember. He has opposed the City Watch consulting me for as long as I've known Captain Lestrade.”  
  
Since Sherlock seemed disinclined to talk further about his past dealings with Salleon, John let the subject drop, and they walked in companionable silence until they reached Blackfish Lane. Sherlock steered them towards a two-story building that housed an inn. The sign above the door told John it was called “The Rope & Anchor”, and the peeling paint on the door told him the inn had seen better days – a long time ago.  
  
Once inside, John noticed that there were no patrons. The empty benches and tables looked grimy in the late morning light, and the air smelled stale and rancid. John spotted Captain Lestrade talking to a thickset, balding man behind the counter at the back of the room, with Salleon standing next to them. As soon as he spotted them, Lestrade excused himself from the balding man with a few words and a curt nod, and came over to them, Salleon sharp on his heels.  
  
“Thank you for coming, Sherlock,” Lestrade said, his voice serious and his eyes worried. “His name was Jeren, a sellsword, staying in one of the rooms that the innkeeper rents out. He was found this morning by Garth, a fellow sellsword who also lives here. The body is upstairs.” The four of them made their way through a door to the left of the counter, and up a flight of wooden stairs. The gold cloak who'd been standing guard at the first victim's house – Andrey, John remembered – stood in front of one of the doors in the upstairs corridor. When they stepped through it, John's gaze was immediately drawn to the body lying face-down on the wooden floor, next to two rickety chairs. As before, there was a mark drawn in blood above the man's head, but this time it was a different design: A straight vertical line, intersected near the lower end by a shorter line that formed a half-circle, open side facing up.   
  
Sherlock quickly looked over the room, probably taking in every minute detail, before proceeding to crouch next to the body. John saw him sniffing the whole length of it like a bloodhound picking up a scent to track. Sherlock looked carefully at the hands and arms of the man, rubbing the sleeves of his tunic between thumb and forefinger, then holding them close to his nose while he frowned. With a look, he beckoned John over, and together they turned the body. This time, John noted, the cold limbs were not completely stiff, though they weren't far from it. As with the other body, there were no fresh wounds visible, though John could make out a number of old scars, and the man's nose seemed to have been broken at some point in the past. Sherlock seemed to have taken a particular interest in the man's breeches, scratching at some mud stains and plucking some tiny green balls covered in spiky hairs – a sort of weed? – from them.  
  
“You got something for me?” Lestrade asked. “Anything?”  
  
“The man was murdered just like the first victim, with a cup of poisoned wine. The victim let the murderer in – again, there are no signs of anybody trying to enter by force on the lock or the doorframe – but this time the murderer was clever: He took the cups with him. He's improving his methods. And that will make it harder to catch him before he inevitably kills again.”  
  
Lestrade's eyes widened in surprise and shock. “Kill again? Why do you think he'll do it again?”  
  
Sherlock pointed to the mark above the dead man's head. “His first symbol was a pair of scales, for the Father Above. The victim took bribes and extorted money... not the finest example of justice. This symbol here is a sword, for the Warrior.”  
  
“So, you think our murderer killed Will for committing sins against the Father – that's why he painted the scales? But even if that were true: I know that some believe being a sellsword may not be the most honorable work, but it certainly isn't a sin to the Warrior,” Lestrade said with conviction.  
  
Sherlock inclined his head as if to concede the point. “No, it certainly is not... except if you're a craven who hides instead of fighting.”  
  
Lestrade looked startled. “How could you possibly know the man was a craven?”  
  
“I need to talk to the sellsword who found him. Bring him in,” Sherlock demanded in his usual imperious voice.  
  
Lestrade nodded to a sour-faced Andrey, who immediately turned on his heel and stomped out of the room. It didn't take long for him to return with a lean man wearing a well-worn breastplate made of brown leather scales over a long-sleeved ringmail shirt. He carried a sword on his leather belt, and heavy knee-high leather boots over faded, brown breeches. Garth the sellsword, obviously.  
  
Sherlock waved his hand in the general direction of the body. “You found him this morning, didn't you?”  
  
The man's eyes followed Sherlock's gesture to where the body lay. “I sure did. We were supposed to accompany a merchant's hunting party today, what with all those outlaws and cutthroats lurking in the woods. Jeren didn't answer my calls, so I tried his door, and it was unlocked. Couldn't believe my eyes when I saw him lying there on the floor. I thought he hadn't made it to his bed and fallen asleep, but when he didn't stir to my calls, I tried to wake him more forcefully. That's when I realized he'd never wake again.”  
  
Sherlock stared hard at the man. “How long have you known him?”  
  
Garth met his gaze coolly and didn't flinch. “I've met him once or twice before, though we never fought together. Or against each other. Told me yesterday over a tankard of ale that he was from Lannisport, and that he'd just come back from his last errand. Hadn't gone too well.”  
  
“Did he tell you what happened?” Sherlock asked.  
  
The man nodded. “He did. Said he was hired to guard a nobleman's family on their way to King's Landing, but they were ambushed. Did everything he could, but they were outnumbered, and the family was killed. He barely got away alive.”  
  
Sherlock's eyebrows rose high on his forehead. “Really? How interesting. Did you spend the rest of the evening together?”  
  
“Nah,” Garth shook his head. “He soon left to spend the night out. Don't know where he went, though.”  
  
Sherlock sighed disappointedly. “Do you at least know when he returned?”  
  
“Couldn't say,” the man shrugged. “I went upstairs at about midnight, and I'm pretty sure he hadn't returned by then. Didn't hear a thing after I went to sleep.”  
  
“That will be all for now,” Sherlock told him, and Garth quickly took his leave with a brief nod to Sherlock and Lestrade. When he had left, Sherlock turned to Lestrade. “As I said, the victim was a coward, and that sellsword's story proves it.”  
  
Lestrade looked as frustrated as John felt. “How in seven hells does his story prove he was a coward? We just heard he valiantly defended a family against outlaws! Are you saying he's lying?”  
  
Sherlock heaved a deep sigh. “No, _he_ is not lying. But obviously the victim lied to _him_.”  
  
“Obviously?” John echoed.  
  
Impatiently, Sherlock walked over to the pieces of armor that lay on the foot of the straw mattress. “There are no fresh marks on his breastplate or his vambraces, and there are no healing wounds or bruises on his body. This man wasn't in a fight recently. Instead, he hid in the undergrowth. And how do I know that? Because there's mud and stickerweed on his breeches from kneeling on the ground! This man was a craven, and he drowned his sorrows in his winecup. Last night he drank heavily, you can still smell the wine on him, and his sleeves are soaked in a merry mixture of different beers, wines and strongwines. It's a wonder he even found his way back here considering how inebriated he must have been.”  
  
“Astonishing!” John exclaimed, and a small but nonetheless very pleased smile flashed across Sherlock's face before he quickly wiped it away.  
  
“Lestrade, whoever the murderer is, he's killing his way through all of the Seven. First the Father, now the Warrior. We've got ourselves a serial murderer.” He grinned which was, of course, completely inappropriate. “I _love_ those. There's always something to look forward to.”  
  
John gave him a look halfway between _Are you joking?_ and _I know you're not joking, but you do realize this is really not the time nor the place to be happy about a serial murderer being on the loose, do you?_  
  
“Not good?” Sherlock asked, confusion clearly etched in his face.  
  
“A _bit_ not good, yes,” John confirmed. “Anything else here that could help find the murderer?”  
  
Sherlock looked around the room again, mouth set in a thin line and brows furrowed. “I'm not sure. There's something I'm missing, something important.” He started to frantically pace back and forth in the tiny room, but then stopped abruptly to glare at Lestrade, Salleon and Andrey. “Don't move, don't speak, don't breathe. I'm trying to think! Andrey, face the other way. You're putting me off.”  
  
Outraged, Andrey hissed, “What? My _face_ is?”  
  
Lestrade gave him a hard look. “Everybody quiet and still. Andrey, turn your back.”  
  
“Oh, for the Gods' sake!” Andrey cried, throwing up his hands in irritation.  
  
Lestrade, however, didn't relent, and repeated more forcefully, “Pray, do turn your back, _now_!”  
  
Sherlock's eyes were tightly closed and his fingertips were pressed to his temples. As if to himself, he muttered, “Come on, think. Quick!”  
  
Suddenly, his face brightened and he looked around, realization dawning on his face. “Oh.” He smiled in delight and resumed walking around the small room again, but this time his pacing wasn't agitated. Instead, he radiated excitement and purpose. “I've been terribly slow. Don't you see, don't you get it? This wasn't his second murder. It was his third!”  
  
“What do you mean?” Lestrade asked. “There have been no reports of other murders like this.”  
  
“The murder dedicated to the Father, it was too perfect. How could the murderer know how fast the poison would act on the gold cloak? That he wouldn't be able to taste the poison? That he wouldn't put up a fight once he'd consumed the wine and started to feel the poison's effects? Because he had done it before! You need to find out who the first victim was!”  
  
Lestrade rubbed the palm of his right hand across his forehead before pinching the bridge of his nose, his eyes pinched in frustration. “Sherlock, there haven't been any other poison murders!”  
  
Sherlock looked perplexed for a moment, but quickly recovered his zeal. “Oh, of course! I've been too slow. If there hadn't been marks drawn in blood next to the bodies, you probably wouldn't have suspected there was anything amiss at all. People die, it's what they do, and who can know why the Gods decide to take one life and spare another? I'm telling you, there is another victim, our murderer's first victim, that you need to find.”  
  
Lestrade's held his empty hands up in front of him, palms facing upwards in a sign of defeat. “And how am I supposed to do that? Do you know how many people die in King's Landing every day? Even _if_ you are right and one of them had been murdered by poison without anyone becoming suspicious... it would be searching for a pebble on a rocky beach! I don't have enough men for such a task.”  
  
With a deep sigh, Salleon exasperatedly rolled his eyes, clearly fed up with Sherlock's ridiculous ideas. It was time for somebody to finally make a sensible suggestion on how to catch this murderer. He glared at Sherlock, then turned to Lestrade. “Captain, what about the interrogation of the poison traders? I'm sure we'll be able to track down the murderer once we know where he bought his poison.”  
  
Sherlock gave Salleon a withering look before turning his gaze back to John. “As we are no longer needed here, we shall take our leave.” And with a few long strides, he passed Salleon, Andrey and Lestrade to leave the room. John gave Lestrade a brief nod and quickly hurried after him.  
  
To his surprise, Sherlock didn't take the way back to the Two Bakers Inn. Instead, John soon found himself walking towards Flea Bottom, its ramshackle buildings crawling like mold up the east side of Rhaenys's hill. The stench of pigsties, stables and tanner's sheds mixed with the smell of winesinks and whorehouses was quite unmistakable. Sherlock walked determinedly through the maze of twisting, unpaved alleys and cross-streets, past numerous pot-shops selling bowls of the local stew, and John wondered briefly whether he'd ever find his way back on his own. Suddenly, Sherlock stopped in front of another one of the open pot-shops, and took some copper coins from his pouch. Inside a huge tub, John could see the brown stew simmering under a film of grease, and pieces of vegetables that looked like carrots, onions, and possibly turnips, occasionally floating to the surface. The smell of it was quite overpowering.   
  
“Bowl o' brown?” The wrinkled face of a white-haired woman appeared behind the tub, her crooked smile exposing two rows of reddish-brown teeth. There was blood-red froth in the corners of her mouth, which John knew stemmed from chewing sourleaf. He had only tried it once himself since it didn't grow in the North and was therefore hard to come by (and expensive). The sharp, bitter taste of the dried, green leaves had almost made him spit them out again immediately, and he remembered how chewing them had made him flush and his heart beat faster.  
  
“Excellent choice, Madam,” Sherlock replied, and handed over the coins. The crone quickly tucked them away, and Sherlock turned to leave again. John gave the wizened woman one last look before following Sherlock back down the same street as before. He raised his eyebrows questioningly at Sherlock. “So, care to explain what that was about?”  
  
Sherlock smirked and looked pointedly at the blackened ruin sitting atop the Hill of Rhaenys. “Have you ever been to the Dragonpit, John?”


	8. Busy little bee

The road that wound it's way up to the Dragonpit was narrow and steep, and despite all the walks he had taken since his arrival in King's Landing, John was soon out of breath trying to keep up with Sherlock's long strides. When they arrived at the top of Rhaenys's hill, the sight that greeted him was enough to stop him in his tracks and make him stare in wonder. Once, a huge dome must have spanned the building, but it had long since collapsed, leaving only broken pillars and splintered beams that reached into the sky like sharp teeth lining the maw of some giant creature. The stonework was blackened and crumbling, and whatever wood had not been not been burned to cinders was now slowly rotting away. The main entrance was sealed by two giant bronze doors, so wide that thirty knights could easily ride abreast inside. Piles of rubble reached halfway up the doors, barring the entrance. To the sides, clusters of smaller buildings huddled close to the thick walls of the pit. Sherlock headed straight for one of them, a two-story stone building that had once probably housed guards or servants. The roof had collapsed in disrepair many summers ago, and the main door was nailed shut. Once they had walked around to the back of the building, John spotted another, smaller entrance. However, once Sherlock had opened the apparently unlocked door, he only briefly peeked inside, then pulled the door shut again, and leaned against the wall, waiting.  
  
“Everybody knows,” Sherlock said, “that before King Robert took the Iron Throne, the Targaryens had ruled the Seven Kingdoms for nearly 300 years – in fact, King's Landing was founded by the very first Targaryen king, Aegon the Conquerer. I assume you're familiar with the story of the Targaryen War of Conquest; however, you might not have yet heard the story of the Dragonpit, and how it fell into ruin.”  
  
At Winterfell, John had never cared much for the history of the Targaryen rule – being so far up in the North, it had seemed very distant and terribly long gone. Nevertheless, he did vaguely remember the stories of fire-breathing dragons and their fearless riders that he'd heard as a young boy. Standing now in front of the ruined Dragonpit, he suddenly found history much more compelling. With a nod and a smile, he prompted Sherlock to continue. Sherlock looked pleased at the prospect.  
  
“All the Targaryen kings of yore were dragonriders, and the dragonpit is where they kept their dragons,” he said with a dramatic sweep of his arm that encompassed the ruins in front of them. “When the fifth Targaryen king, Viserys I, died, his daughter Rhaenyra and her half-brother Aegon II, Viserys I's eldest son by his second wife, both lay claim to the throne, and the realm was plunged into a bloody war which later became known as the Dance of the Dragons. During this war, Aegon II was crowned in King's Landing, but Rhaenyra managed to take the city, and for half a year, she sat on the Iron Throne. During the Fall of King's Landing, Rhaenyra had taken captive Aegon II's sister-wife Helaena, whom the people of King's Landing loved dearly. She was mad with grief and killed herself, but rumors spread across the city that she had been murdered at the Queen's behest. This was the spark to ignite the powderkeg of ten thousand frightened and angry people. The riots started in Flea Bottom, and spread like wildfire. Wagons were overturned, shops and warehouses were looted, and the 500 gold cloaks of the City Watch were powerless against such a force.  
  
A self-styled prophet called the Shepherd preached to the mob against all dragons everywhere, and when he had finished his rant, thousands stormed to the Dragonpit to kill the dragons that were dwelling there. They clambered inside through windows and lesser entrance doors to find four dragons in the sands of the pit, awake and angry. Because they were bound by heavy chains, they could not take flight, and so they fought with claws and teeth and dragonfire. Dreamfyre, Helaena's mount, was the only one able to finally break free of her bonds, and once she took flight inside the pit, she killed more men than all the three other dragons combined. Maddened and blinded by the arrows and crossbow-bolts that rained down on her, she flew into the great dome above the pit, which cracked and gave way, crushing her and the men below under tons of broken stone and rubble. When those who had survived the carnage came stumbling out of the collapsed pit, Syrax, who had been stabled at the Red Keep and unleashed by Rhaenyra's son Joffrey, descended upon them. Her roars mingled with the screams of thousands as she crowned Rhaenys's hill with dragonfire, but eventually, she, too, was slain. No one knows how many smallfolk died that night. Hundreds, for certain – maybe even thousands. Ever since, the ruins of the Dragonpit have stood atop Rhaenys's hill, overlooking the city.” Sherlock shot him a wry half-smile. “Some believe the souls of those that died screaming in the dragonfire still haunt these ruins.”  
  
“Sherlock,” John said, “that's very interesting and all, but why are _we_ here? Looking for ghosts?” he added incredulously.  
  
Sherlock looked expectantly to the left, then to the right. “In a manner of speaking, yes.”  
  
They didn't have to wait long. Soon enough, a bedraggled boy that could not have seen more than ten namedays, clothed in rags and barefoot, approached them. He held a slightly shriveled-looking apple in his left hand.  
  
“Did you make sure nobody followed you?” Sherlock inquired as soon as the boy was within earshot.  
  
The boy took a bite from the apple and nodded while chewing vigorously.  
  
Sherlock took out his money pouch again and started counting out copper coins. “I am looking for somebody who was secretly murdered by poisoning. I need any and all rumors about sudden, unexplained deaths as well as suicides by poison that occurred during the last moon.” He held out ten coins to the boy. “You know where to find me.”  
  
The boy nodded again, then grabbed the coins and stuffed them into his trouser pockets. Without a word, he left, his small form quickly dissolving into the shadows around them.  
  
After returning to the Two Old Bakers Inn, John was relieved to find that Jasper had indeed carried all his belongings into the upstairs bedchamber. John busied himself by stowing them away in the simple wooden chest that stood at the foot of his bed. He'd first wanted to put the dagger there as well, but then decided to keep it under the straw mattress of his bed instead, where it would be easier to reach should the need suddenly arise. His bow was too large to put in the chest, so for now he also stuffed it (bowstring unfastened) next to his dagger under the mattress. Finally, he placed the quiver full of arrows in the chest, hidden by a few strategically placed items of clothing. When he was done, he returned downstairs to find Sherlock sitting on the settle, a bottle of white powder and a glass of clear liquid on the table in front of him. With a small silver spoon, he removed some of the powder from the bottle, and using his thumb and forefinger, sprinkled a pinch of the powder into the glass. Immediately, the water turned a pale red, and Sherlock used a wooden spoon to stir the strange concoction. When the powder had dissolved completely, he took another pinch of the white powder, and repeated the process. The liquid turned blood-red.  
  
“What are you doing?” John asked.  
  
“Essence of sourleaf. Helps me think,” Sherlock said as he took a third pinch and added it to the liquid, which turned an even darker, almost black red. “I distill it myself from a brew of crushed sourleaf leaves. Ten times as potent as the leaves themselves.” Putting the wooden spoon aside, he tipped his head back and swallowed the red-black liquid. After putting the empty glass back on the table, he lay down on the settle and stared at the ceiling with his fingertips steepled in front of his chin. A moment later, his eyes closed and a soft sigh escaped his lips as all tension seemed to seep out of his body and he practically melted into the cushions.  
  
“Was that _three_ pinches?” John said incredulously. He'd never heard of anybody chewing more than one or two leaves at a time, and if that powder really was ten times as potent... He looked more closely at Sherlock, worrying what overly much sourleaf would do to a body. Sherlock, however, appeared completely calm, apart from a slight flush that tinted his cheeks and the long line of his neck a pale shade of rose. His breathing was even but shallow, making his chest rise and fall just a bit too rapidly.  
  
“It's a three-pinch problem,” Sherlock replied serenely without opening his eyes.  
  
John tore his gaze from Sherlock's reclining figure, deciding that he seemed fine, but to keep an eye on him just in case. Since it looked like Sherlock wouldn't move for any time in the foreseeable future, John turned to the supping room to see how well their pantry had been stocked by Madam Hudson. He was pleasantly surprised to find a platter with slices of roasted pork, a bowl of steamed carrots and peas, and half a loaf of bread that was still warm from the oven sitting on the table. The smell was delicious, and he quickly piled half of their meal onto a plate and tucked in with an appetite. After the first few bites, however, his gaze fell on Sherlock's still form, and he swallowed noisily before asking, “Aren't you going to eat?”  
  
Sherlock opened his eyes and moved his head fractionally to look in John's direction. “What day is it?”  
  
“It's the first day of the second moon,” John answered, puzzled by the apparent change in topic.  
  
Sherlock closed his eyes again. “I'm fine for a while.”  
  
“You haven't eaten today?” John clarified. Silently, he wondered exactly how many days had passed since Sherlock's last meal, and whether he indeed remembered _when_ he'd last eaten if he couldn't even be bothered to keep track of which day today was. “You need to eat,” he insisted.  
  
“No, _you_ need to eat,” Sherlock replied. “ _I_ need to think. The mind is what counts. Everything else is just conveyance.”  
  
John frowned. “You might want to consider that even the horses that pull a carriage need to be fed once in a while.”  
  
Sherlock's only answer was a vague and absentminded hum, so John chose not to press the matter – at least for now. When he had finished every last morsel of his meal, he decided to take a closer look at the many books in their quarters. There were small books and large books, new books and books so old that the faded ink was barely visibly anymore on the crumbling pages. Their topics were as diverse as their outward appearances, ranging from history, astronomy, and warfare to medicine and healing. What all the scrolls contained that lay scattered over every surface and piled high into stacks, John couldn't even guess. He picked up a heavy tome titled _Healing herbs – An illustrated compendium of plants with medicinal properties native to the Crownlands_ , by Archmaester Ebrose. The afternoon quickly turned into evening as he sat in his chair in front of the fireplace, engrossed in the book. The pictures of the plants had been drawn by a very talented hand, every leaf, petal and root executed with exquisite care and attention to detail. Below each picture, the properties of the respective plant were enumerated: Where it could be found, which parts were worth harvesting, how these needed to be processed, and what ailments they could cure. Some of the plants John recognized while others were completely unknown to him, and he remembered how back at Winterfell his mother had often returned home with a basket of freshly cut herbs for Maester Luwin, collected from the woods, glades and meadows surrounding the castle. She had tried to make him and Harla remember their names and properties, though neither of them had been very enthusiastic about this kind of education at the time. Now, John was intrigued by the many ways in which the different plants could be used for healing, and wished he'd payed more attention in the past.  
  
When the sun set, John lit a lamp he found on the sitting room table, and after a frugal supper of bread and cheese, continued studying the book. The noises of the busy inn below drifted softly upstairs, and amidst the drone of voices and the clatter of plates and cups John nearly missed the gentle knock at their door. Sherlock, however, was on his feet immediately and strode quickly to the door. When he opened it, John saw a small figure dressed in a ragged brown cloak, its face hidden by a the deep folds of a hood. As soon as Sherlock had closed the door, the hood was lifted to reveal to face of the boy they had met earlier at the Dragonpit.  
  
“We found what yer looking for,” the boy said. “About a fortnight ago, a goldsmith's wife died in a mishap... fell down the stairs, seems like. Three days later, her husband were found dead in his chambers. The family thought he'd died from grief o'er his wife's death... heartbroken, they said he were.”  
  
“Excellent!” Sherlock eagerly rubbed his hands together. “What were the names of the deceased, and where did they live?”  
  
“Lucia an' Jeffory, or Jeff as he liked t' be called,” the boy replied. “Their house is on Dewberry Lane, close t' the Iron Gate. Looks like the goldsmith's brother lives there now.”  
  
“And do you happen to know what became of the bodies?” Sherlock inquired.  
  
The boy shook his head. “Nah. But they'd both been of the Faith, so the Silent Sisters probably took 'em.”  
“Pity. They'll have been buried by now, of course.” Sherlock frowned at this, apparently annoyed by the stupidity of the family at not realizing the deaths were suspicious and the resulting inconvenience of not having a body to examine.  
  
“You don't want to question the brother today, do you?” John wanted to know. “It's night already, and I'm sure he'll not take kindly to a visit at such a late hour.”  
  
With a sigh, Sherlock turned and dismissed the boy with a wave of his hand. The boy tucked the hood back into place and slipped silently out of the door.  
  
“Clever,” John admitted. When Sherlock gave him a questioning look, he clarified, “Using children from the streets to pick up rumors and gossip. You've done that before, haven't you?”  
  
Sherlock had walked over to the window and now looked outside at the darkened city. “I like to think of them as my busy little bees. They buzz around the city unnoticed, knowing all the best sources from which to collect the honey of information. And if someone swats at them... well, let's just say they know how to sting.”  
  
Not long after, John climbed up the stairs to his bedchamber, exhausted but also exhilarated by the events of the day. As he lay below the blanket on the unfamiliar bed, his thoughts kept spinning in circles, returning to the events of the last few days. Two murders, being threatened by Sherlock's mysterious arch-enemy, dead rats, a visit to the Great Sept of Baelor, chasing and being chased through half of King's Landing, talk of dragons, ghosts, and bees – a fortnight ago he never would have imagined that his life could be anything like this, and if anybody had told him then, he would have called them mad. And it was mad, wasn't it? Things like these didn't happen, and certainly not to ordinary people like John, but he'd be damned if he wouldn't enjoy it for as long as it lasted. He finally fell asleep wondering what the next day might bring.  
  
***  
  
It felt as if he had been asleep for mere moments when John awoke with a start. His room was dark except for the little moonlight that filtered through his window. He sat up, trying to make out what had woken him. Suddenly, a terrible screeching noise cut through the air… something tormented and just _wrong_. The silence that followed was blissful but unfortunately short-lived, and this time the sounds didn’t stop. They came from downstairs, John realized, so he quickly made his way to the sitting room, barefoot and dressed only in his nightshirt. Halfway down, the erratic sounds stopped again. When he carefully opened the door, candlelight spilled onto the landing, and he could see Sherlock, still wearing his dark-green robe, standing with his back to him in the middle of the room. In his left hand, he held the neck of a fiddle-like instrument that was poised on his left shoulder, and in his right, he held a bow. At many of Winterfell’s feasts, John had heard merry tunes being played on the fiddle of a traveling minstrel, but the noises Sherlock had wrought from his instrument were unlike anything he’d ever heard before… _although strangling a cat must surely sound quite similar_ , he thought sullenly. He took a few hesitant steps into the room, but Sherlock didn’t turn around or acknowledge his presence in any way. Instead, the bow scraped once more across the strings of the instrument, and John flinched.  
  
John firmly planted his feet on the ground, straightened his back and narrowed his eyes. His voice was cold and calm, but the twitching of his nose and the repeated clenching and unclenching of his left hand betrayed the fiery anger that burned just below his carefully composed surface. “Sherlock, what in seven hells are you doing?”  
  
Sherlock heaved a sigh and lowered the hand that held the bow. When he turned around, his eyes flashed with… anger? frustration? “Unlike most of the people in the Seven Kingdoms, I am _thinking_ ,” he said, voice harsh and cutting. “You ought to try it sometime, I’m sure it would make for a pleasant change.”  
  
“Well, it’s the middle of the bloody night, Sherlock, and I am trying to sleep, so maybe you could think without torturing that instrument of yours,” John replied.  
  
“Sleep is boring,” Sherlock said sullenly. He looked at the instrument in his hand for a long, thoughtful moment, but instead of lowering it, he lifted the bow back into place. John had just drawn enough breath to shout over the infernal noise he was expecting, when instead a soft, quiet note hesitantly filled the room. It lingered, fading gently into the night’s stillness, before another note took its place, slightly more persistent. A third note quickly followed, then a fourth.  
  
Belatedly, John realized he was holding his breath, and he exhaled softly, not wanting to interrupt Sherlock’s playing. He didn’t recognize the tune, and wasn’t even sure whether it really was a song or whether Sherlock was making it up as he played, but it was strangely soothing, and his chest filled with a sweet sadness. Enthralled, John stepped over to the settle – it was closer to the door than his chair, after all – and took a seat. For the first time, he studied the instrument in Sherlock's hands more closely. He remembered that Sherlock had said he played the vielle when they had first met in the septas' sickhouse. The body of the vielle was broader at the top and the bottom, with a narrower part in the middle where the strings ran from the tailpiece over the bridge to the fingerboard… much like the hourglass that had stood in Maester Luwin’s study. The fiddles at Winterfell, John remembered, had always been a simple oval, and usually lacked embellishments. The tailpiece and the fingerboard of Sherlock’s vielle were richly decorated in black and white – mother of pearl, maybe? The dark, polished wood gleamed in the soft light of the embers in the fireplace, and John could just make out an intricate pattern winding along the vielle’s body that looked like it might be painted onto its surface. Sherlock’s impossibly long and slender fingers moved gracefully over the five strings, and his lean body swayed in time with the music, as if he was playing the instrument not only with his hands and arms, but all of his body. The threads of the vielle’s music wove a comforting tapestry around John, and slowly he slipped under the soft blanket of sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m no expert on musical instruments, but with the help of Wikipedia I made Sherlock’s vielle a cross between a real [medieval vielle](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vielle) and a [Hardanger fiddle](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hardanger_fiddle). If there are any factual errors in my description, please let me know.


	9. Not All Is Gold That Does Glitter

When he woke for the next time, early morning sunlight streamed through the windows of the quiet sitting room. Blinking slowly, John carefully sat up and rolled his head from side to side to loosen the tension in his neck and shoulders. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen or heard, so John went upstairs to get dressed in his usual tunic and breeches, and then made his way back downstairs into the supping room. After stoking the embers in the hearth back into life and adding some wood, John filled a copper kettle with water from a large clay jug and put it onto the hearth. He went through the drawers and shelves looking for mint or nettle leaves. Harla didn’t like tea, so he hadn’t bothered to make any while he stayed with her, but now he looked forward to a nice hot cup of it. Luckily Sherlock (or Madam Hudson, more likely) seemed to share his taste, and he found a lidded jar with dried mint leaves on one of the shelves.   
  
When the water finally boiled, he removed the kettle from the stove and added a handful of the fragrant leaves. While the tea steeped, he cleared the supping room table and placed two cups on it. In a drawer, he found a small sieve made of fine mesh, which he placed over each cup as he poured the tea. As the tea cooled, he cut some slices of bread from yesterday’s loaf and put them on a wooden plate. To his delight, two small clay jars on the shelf turned out to contain butter and honey, and he added them to the display on the table. Lastly, he unwrapped the cheese from its cloth and placed it on the table as well. After giving it a satisfied look, he sat at the table and had just wrapped his hands around one of the steaming cups of tea, when the door to Sherlock’s room opened, and Sherlock strode into the supping room, clean-shaven and impeccably dressed in a maroon-colored robe. As he walked past the table, he picked up the other cup, and gave it a cursory sniff. His eyebrows rose and he took a small sip, then quickly gulped down the rest of the hot liquid while walking towards the door. “Hurry up, John. I need to talk to Jeffory’s brother.”  
  
John gave his breakfast a long, wistful look, then quickly swallowed a few mouthfuls of tea while rising out of his chair. He hastily grabbed a slice of bread while Sherlock was already fastening his black cloak, and when he descended the stairs, John was only a few steps behind.  
  
Dewberry Lane was in one of the wealthier parts of town. The houses here were larger, and usually two or three stories high, made of neatly carved blocks of stone. Many windows were decorated with colored pieces of glass lined in lead, and the doors were painted in bright colors, adorned with shining brass knockers. When they turned into the road, John spotted the sign of a goldsmith’s shop hanging over a door to their right, where Dewberry Lane met Hawthorn Alley. When they stepped closer, he noticed that the window shutters were closed, and when Sherlock tried the door, they found it locked. A wooden staircase on the side of the building led to the upper story, where John presumed the goldsmith had lived with his wife. They climbed the steps, and Sherlock knocked. After a few moments, the door opened slightly to reveal part of a young man’s face. Sherlock inclined his head in greeting, and introduced himself. “Good day to you. My name is Shadrick Herston. And you must be Jeffory’s brother.”  
  
The young man stared at Sherlock for a moment, but quickly recovered. “Yes, m’lord. I am Pate. What can I do for you?”  
  
“I am deeply sorry for your loss, Pate,” Sherlock said. “May the Seven give you strength and comfort in this time of grief.”  
  
“Thank you, m’lord,” Pate replied, his eyes cast downwards.  
  
Sherlock’s gaze quickly darted past Pate’s head to the room behind him, though John couldn’t see much through the narrow opening of the door. “Pate,” Sherlock said softly, “I do not wish to cause you upset in this difficult time, but the matter I wish to discuss with you can unfortunately not wait. I have come here today in the hopes of a bargain from which we both may profit. Your brother has left you with a well-situated, large house, and as it happens, I am looking for just such a place. I have recently come to King’s Landing from my father’s holdings because I have been appointed to assist the Master of Laws, Lord Renly Baratheon, in legal matters of the Crown. My wife will follow me here as soon as I have acquired lodgings suitable for us.”  
  
“Con- congratulations on your appointment, m’lord,” Pate stuttered. “Pray, do come inside, I am honored by your visit.” He opened the door completely and gestured for them to step inside, head bowed in deference.  
  
Pate led them through the kitchen into a well-furnished sitting room. The walls were richly decorated with tapestries, the chairs were carved decoratively and covered with embroidered cushions, and the table was inlaid with an intricate mosaic of differently colored woods. “Take a seat, m'lord,” Pate said. “May I offer you refreshments? Unfortunately, I had to let all the servants go. I only have a very humble income, and could not afford to pay them for their services.”  
  
Sherlock gave him a reassuring smile. “There is no need to apologize, Pate. I will not impose upon your hospitality for long, but talk of business always makes me thirsty. A cup of wine or water will be greatly appreciated.”  
  
“Of course, m’lord,” Pate nodded. “Excuse me, I’ll be right back.”  
  
Once Pate had left the room, John gave Sherlock a look, his eyebrows raised questioningly. “Pretending to want to buy the house for you and your wife because you’re working for Lord Renly? Do you think that’s wise? What’s going to happen when he finds out you’re lying?”  
  
“I don’t suppose he will. Not anytime soon, anyway.” Sherlock took a seat, but his eyes quickly darted around the room, taking in every detail of it. When Pate returned with three cups on a wooden serving tray, he schooled his features back into the bland, pleasant expression he had worn earlier. “Thank you,” Sherlock said as he gracefully accepted one of the cups. “So, Pate, as I said before, I am willing to pay a considerable sum for this property of yours. I hope you are amenable to my business proposal?”  
  
Pate put down the tray, but he didn’t meet Sherlock’s eyes. Instead, he kept his gaze fixed on his hands, which were now clasped tightly in front of him. “M’lord, I haven’t talked to anybody about selling the house, but now I can confess to you that ever since I moved here after my brother’s death, I haven’t been able to feel at home. The house is too large for me, I think, and everything here reminds me of my dear Jeff and his lovely wife Lucia. Their deaths were a terrible tragedy, and this place feels like a tomb to me. I would be glad to sell it to you.”  
  
“Thank you, Pate, your honesty is greatly appreciated.” Sherlock carefully put the cup on the table in front of him. “If you don’t mind, I would like to see the rest of the house. May I ask you to show us around?”  
  
“Of course, m’lord,” Pate said. “Please, follow me.”  
  
Pate first led them downstairs to the goldsmith’s workshop, which Sherlock only looked at with passing interest. The living quarters of several servants were located to the back of the house, now empty and lacking any personal belongings. When they returned upstairs, Pate showed them the other rooms they had not seen before, among them the bedchamber. A large part of this room was taken up by a huge four-poster bed. It’s dark and polished wood was richly decorated with carvings, and finely embroidered curtains trimmed in Myrish lace hung from the canopy. The bedcovers looked equally expensive, and the plump pillows seemed invitingly soft. At the foot of the bed was a finely carved chest, and on each side a small cupboard. A large closet stood on the opposite wall, and next to it was a full-length mirror in a silver frame. Beneath the two windows that overlooked the inner courtyard, John also saw a table and two chairs, both from the same dark wood that the bed was made of and decorated with matching carvings.   
  
Sherlock strolled through the room, pretending to just give it a cursory glance, but John knew better than to believe that impression. He noticed that Sherlock’s gaze lingered first on the bedframe and then the left bedside cupboard, upon which stood a heavy silver candlestick with a white candle that was burned halfway down. Next, Sherlock’s eyes focused on the table under the windows, which contained a pair of tongs, several thin metal bars with differently shaped tips, pliers, a coil of gold wire, a mallet, and a Myrish lens. Casually, Sherlock picked up one of the metal bars and looked at it closely through the Myrish lens. “It looks like your brother did not take his mind off his work, even in the bedchamber. I believe he had great passion for his craft?”  
  
Pate nodded slowly. “I should think so, m’lord. He was very good at it, for sure. Made the most stunning pieces just from a lump of metal. Jewelery, goblets, platters… you name it, he did it.”  
  
The last room Pate led them to was the drawing room. In front of a chair, a frame on a stand contained a half-finished embroidery work. Next to the chair, there was a basket full of differently colored yarn. A piece of thick cloth held needles of all sizes, and countless pins were stuck into a small cushion.  
  
“I am sure my wife will love this house. She has a penchant for needlework,” Sherlock said thoughtfully as he picked up the basket and turned to look out of the window. The windows faced east, and John had to squint against the bright sunlight. Sherlock held the basket in front of him while apparently taking in the view outside. “I think she would have been good friends with Lucia, if they had ever met.”  
  
Pate’s eyes wandered sadly around the room. “I’m sure of it, m’lord. Lucia was a kind and gentle woman. She never spoke ill of anybody, and was well loved by all who knew her. The Gods were cruel to take her from us so soon.”  
  
Sherlock turned back and gave Pate a solemn nod. “Indeed. Your brother Jeffory must have been devastated by her loss.”  
  
Pate cast his eyes down and fidgeted anxiously with his hands. “I must admit, he did not look like it at first, but then again, Jeff was never one to wear his heart on his sleeve. He might have seemed cold to anybody who didn’t know him well, but I’m his brother, and I know he loved Lucia. On the third morning after her death, the maid found him dead in the bedchamber, lying on the floor next to the table. Her death must have broken his heart, and if that’s not love, I don’t know what is.”  
  
“Pray tell,” Sherlock said, “what exactly happened to Lucia. I only heard it was some kind of accident. If there is anything that can be done to prevent such a tragedy from repeating itself, I shall see to it.”  
  
Pate shook his head, slowly and sadly. “Nobody could have prevented it, m’lord. She slipped on the stairs and fell, that’s all.”  
  
Taking a few steps towards the door, Sherlock gestured for Pate to lead them on. “If you could show me exactly where it happened, I shall decide for myself whether anything needs to be done.”  
  
“Of course, m’lord.” Pate walked them back to the stairs that they had already climbed to get to the workshop and the servant’s quarters downstairs. “One of the servants heard a shout and came running, but when they found Lucia at the bottom of these stairs, she was already dead.”  
  
Sherlock carefully descended the first step and then peered at the tapestry on the wall to his left. John could make out faint scratch marks on the tapestry. Sherlock lifted his hand and carefully traced on of the marks with his index finger. “I shall charge a carpenter with constructing a railing, so that my wife may walk these stairs unafraid.” Sherlock walked back up, and held his hand out for Pate. “I thank you for your time and hospitality, Pate. I’m sure you understand I need to confer with my wife about these matters, but I will get back to you as soon as possible so that we can discuss the further proceedings.”  
  
Pate shook his hand uncertainly and then guided them through the kitchen towards the door. “Yes, m’lord. I look forward to hearing from you.”  
  
Sherlock already had his hand on the door, when he suddenly turned back towards Pate. “Just one last thing: We shall, of course, need to hire servants again. Do you perchance know the names of those you had to let go, and where I can find them? Good servants are hard to come by these days.”  
  
Pate shrugged his shoulders with an apologetic look on his pale face. “Well, I can give you the names, for sure. Alayne was the cook, Danelle the maid, and Ned was Jeff’s apprentice. Though I don’t know of how much use that is to you, because they didn’t say where they were going next.”  
  
A brief flash of annoyance crossed Sherlock’s face, but he quickly hid it, and smiled pleasantly at Pate. “Thank you, Pate, you have been most helpful. I bid you farewell.”  
  
When they were back on the street walking home towards the Street of Flour, John noticed a smug smile tugging at the corners of Sherlock’s lips. “Care to tell me why you wanted to know about the servants’ names?” John asked. “I mean, that Jeffory is clearly the first victim. He dropped dead without any reason, and ended up dead on the floor next to a table, just like the other two.”  
  
Sherlock gave him a surprised look. “Excellent deduction, John.”  
  
Although he felt pleased by the unexpected praise, John couldn’t help to also feel the sting that Sherlock had looked surprised by his conclusion – John knew he wasn’t stupid, although compared to Sherlock, everybody probably looked like a half-wit. “But what I don’t understand is what did he do to deserve to die? And why was there no mark drawn in blood?”  
  
“Well,” Sherlock said, “to answer your first question: Considering he regularly tortured and finally murdered his wife, I assume her lover held a grudge against him and decided to kill him in return.”  
  
John’s eyes widened in surprise, and he gave Sherlock a questioning look, expecting the genius to explain how he had arrived at this shocking conclusion. “I’m waiting,” he prompted when Sherlock did not elaborate.  
  
“What for?” Sherlock asked, a puzzled frown on his face.  
  
“For you to tell me how you know all that,” John explained patiently. “Come on, don’t be shy.”  
  
Sherlock looked at him with narrowed eyes. “You’re making fun of me.”  
  
John shook his head, smiling slightly. “No, I’m teasing you, that’s a completely different thing. And I really do want to know how you came to know all that.”  
  
Sherlock considered this for a while before he finally replied. “The wife didn’t have an accident, John. She was pushed down those stairs. You saw the scratch marks on the tapestry. She reached for it when she fell, trying to hold on to it. Do you remember in what direction the scratches ran?”  
  
John briefly closed his eyes, trying to summon up the memory of the tapestry. “From the upper left to the upper right side, then curving downwards to the lower right. Why?”  
  
“Think about it,” Sherlock said. “If you slipped on the stairs and tried to grab something to hold on to, how would you most likely fall?”  
  
John didn’t need to imagine what it felt like to slip on a steep stairway. Winterfell had lots of high towers, and he had often chased Harla up and down those stairs when they had been children. He could still clearly recall the hurt in his back that had lasted for days after tumbling down one of them. And how he had clawed at the bare stone walls to stop his fall. His backwards fall. “If she had slipped,” John said, “the scratch marks would run immediately downwards, maybe also backwards. So she didn’t slip; she was pushed. Why would the husband do that?”  
  
“He was cruel and had a temper,” Sherlock replied coldly. ”This wasn’t the first time he mistreated his wife. There are scuff marks on the bedposts at the foot of the bed, consistent with a rope being repeatedly dragged across them. Tying her feet to the bedposts wouldn’t have been enough, though. However, he couldn’t tie up her hands with rope, the chafing on the skin of her wrists would show, and he needed his wife to look presentable. I suspect he used a softer fabric, maybe a silk shawl. The candle on the left side of the bed is burned halfway down, whereas the one on the right side has barely been lit, and there are small drops of wax on the left bedside cupboard, from when he put the candle back into its holder after using it on her. Apparently one way of burning her wasn’t enough, though, as is evident by the tools on the table. Pieces of burned skin were still sticking to some of his chasing tools.”  
  
“Gods, that’s horrible.” John paused, nauseated by the images of what the poor woman had gone through. “So, he was vicious and showed no mercy. A sinner to the Mother’s teachings?”  
  
Sherlock nodded once. “Certainly. The fact that there was no mark drawn in blood shows that the murderer changed his method. But why not mark the husband and expose his sinfulness to the world? Obviously, the murderer didn’t want to draw attention to his deed; and his plan was successful, nobody even suspected that the husband had been murdered. Maybe the murderer wanted to avoid attention, because he did not pick this victim at random. Maybe he was too closely involved.”  
  
“You did say the wife had a lover…” John said thoughtfully.  
  
“I appropriated this from the sitting room.” From his pocket, Sherlock pulled a small silver locket on a delicate silver chain and handed it to John. “It was hidden in the yarn basket.”  
  
The locket’s polished surface was smooth and completely devoid of any markings, but there was a tiny clasp on its right side. When John carefully opened it, he saw that the locket held a strand of raven-black hair, held together by a piece of red string. On the left half of the open locket, the letter L was engraved, and when he carefully pushed the strand of hair aside, he spotted the letter N on the right half of the locket. “Lucia and … Ned, the apprentice? But how can you know it was someone from the household? Maybe this “N” was a family friend or a fellow craftsman of Jeff’s?”  
  
Sherlock shook his head. “He was killed at night, in his own bedchamber. I doubt the husband would have invited any late-night visitors into his bedchamber, and furthermore, it’s unlikely that none of the servants would have taken note of such a person. I admit it is possible, but I think it is improbable.” Picking up his pace, Sherlock added, “We need to find out where Ned is. Before he kills again.”


	10. Red on Green

To John‘s surprise, Sherlock didn’t walk towards Flea Bottom. John had expected Sherlock to use his “busy little bees” for the task of finding the goldsmith’s apprentice, but apparently Sherlock had something different in mind, as they were walking back towards the Two Old Bakers Inn. However, before reaching Aegon's Square, Sherlock turned right, towards the Old Gate. Soon, John found himself walking along Sapphire Street, and Sherlock quickly made his way to one of the jeweler’s shops. Inside, a portly man with long, graying hair stood behind a counter, holding a Myrish lens close to his eye to inspect some precious stone held in his right hand. When he looked up, his brown eyes widened in surprise, and his mouth curled into a wide smile that deepened the creases at the corners of his mouth and eyes.  
  
“Sherlock,” he said while coming around the counter with both arms outstretched to greet them. He clasped Sherlock’s right hand in both of his and gave it a vigorous shake. “Anything I can help you with, you know I’ll do my best.” Turning to John, he added in a low, conspiratorial voice, “This man got me off a murder charge.”  
  
With a slightly embarrassed look, Sherlock formally introduced the gray-haired man to John. “This is Argilo.”  
  
When Argilo offered his hand to John, he shook it, noting the strength in the man’s hands and the way the thick muscles bulged in his arms.  
  
“Two years ago,” Sherlock said, “I successfully proved to Captain Lestrade at the time of a particularly vicious triple murder that Argilo was in a completely different part of town, unloading smuggled goods.”  
  
Argilo nodded firmly to John. “He cleared my name.”  
  
“I cleared it _a bit_ ,” Sherlock corrected.  
  
“But for this man, I’d have been sent to the dungeons,” Argilo told John emphatically.  
  
“You _were_ sent to the dungeons,” Sherlock reminded him.  
  
Argilo smiled and waved his hand airily before turning more serious. “So, what can I do for you, Sherlock? I’m sure you’re not just here to exchange idle pleasantries.”  
  
“Indeed, I am not”, Sherlock said. ”I need your help, Argilo. There’s a goldsmith’s apprentice, Ned, that I need to find. His old master was Jeffory – I believe you knew him?”  
  
Although a friendly smile still played on his lips, Argilo’s voice was completely serious. “Only in passing, though I heard of his recent death, of course.”  
  
“I believe Ned may be looking for a new master to take him on,” Sherlock explained.  
  
“Ah, in that case, I will first have to make a few inquiries,” Argilo said apologetically. “I’ll let you know as soon as I get word of him.”  
  
“Thank you, Argilo,” Sherlock said with a nod, and left. John, too, quickly bade Argilo farewell and caught up with Sherlock outside the shop, where the impatient man had already turned left towards the Street of Flour. After a brisk walk, they quickly arrived at the Two Old Bakers Inn. As soon as they had entered, Madam Hudson came over from the counter with a worried look on her face. “Sherlock, where have you been all morning? That nice captain, Lestrade, was here looking for you. He seemed very upset about something. Told me to ask you to come to the Laurel Garden, an inn on the southern slope of Visenya's Hill, right off the Street of Sisters – he wouldn’t say why, though. Is this about those poison murders you’re looking into?”  
  
Sherlock raised his eyebrows at her. “What else would it be about, Madam Hudson?” And with that, he turned on his heels and headed straight back out the door, leaving John to hurry behind him.  
  
When they arrived at the Laurel Gardens, Andrey gave them a sour look, but otherwise refrained from commenting on their presence. He swiftly led them to the upper floor of the inn, where they found Captain Lestrade pacing in front of one of the doors. The chainmail on his armor clinked softly with every step he took. When he heard them approach, he stopped pacing and looked at Sherlock, a look of annoyance on his face. “Where in the seven hells have you been, Sherlock? I have better things to do than wait here until you decide to grace us with your presence.”  
  
Sherlock’s mouth was pinched into a tight line as he glared back at the captain of the City Watch. “I was doing your work and investigating the poison murders, Lestrade, so unless you’ve had a sudden breakthrough, I suggest you show me the new victim now before we lose any more time.”  
  
Lestrade scrubbed his right hand over his face, and the anger in his features was replaced by weariness. He opened the door and showed them into a tiny room, which was barely large enough to contain a bed and a chest. “Her name is Bethany,” Lestrade said quietly.  
  
On the bed, John saw a young woman dressed in a skirt and bodice lying on her front, her face turned sideways and her right hand stretched above her head. Her index finger was covered in blood, just as the gold cloak’s and the sellsword’s had been. On the wall above her head, a rose had been drawn in blood. John drew in a deep breath and briefly closed his eyes. He'd seen many men die in battle, close friends and strangers alike, but that was now in his past. He had turned his back on it, never to look back. The dead gold cloak and the sellsword, those had been fighters as well, even though they hadn't died on the battlefield. But this was different, and the pain he felt as he looked at her dead body reminded him of it.  
  
Sherlock, however, seemed unperturbed. He took a long look around the small room, cataloging every detail, before moving next to the body on the bed. While his eyes roamed over every inch of her, John went to stand on the other side, trying to see what Sherlock saw. The bed was topped with a green coverlet, decoratively embroidered but fraying at the edges. The woman’s attire consisted of a colorful skirt striped in yellow, orange and red, and a tight-fitting, black bodice that probably laced up in the front. Her white, linen shift was short-sleeved, leaving most of her slender arms bare. Her clothes were clean but well-worn, and mended in many places. Freckles dotted the pale skin of her arms, and her long, open hair was a fiery copper-red. Her face was turned towards Sherlock, who had apparently finished his examination of her and was now looking at the mark on the wall. When he finally looked back at Lestrade, Sherlock’s voice was distant and his face impassive.   
  
“You probably already figured out that this,” he pointed at the mark above the woman’s head, “is the Maiden’s mark.” John leaned closer over the body to get a better look at the mark on the wall. Something seemed... not quite right.   
  
“The unfortunate victim was a harlot,” Sherlock continued, “but in contrast to most others, she did not work at a brothel; instead, she took her clients here. A dangerous business, but apparently quite profitable. The murderer only had to pretend to be a customer, and then slip her the poison once they had come here. He left nothing behind that could give him away.” His calm mask began to slip, and his eyes shone bright with anger. “Why did you call me here, Lestrade?”   
  
John kept looking closely at the mark. It almost seemed as if... “Sherlock,” John said, but Sherlock didn't seem to hear him, instead continuing his rant. “There’s nothing new here for me to learn, no insight to glean, no evidence to process. It’s utterly useless!” He spat out the last word, and was about to stomp out of the room, when John said, more sharply this time, “Sherlock!”  
  
Sherlock turned back, and gave him a quizzical look. John felt suddenly embarrassed. What if it was nothing? But no, this might be important, and if it was nothing then Sherlock was free to insult him later. “I think there's something below the mark.”   
  
Sherlock immediately returned to the other side of the bed, and pulled a Myrish lens from his belt pouch. He knelt on the bed, and squinted at the mark. “Fetch me water and a cloth,” he said to no one in particular. John was about to follow his order, when Lestrade gave him a nod and left. Soon, he returned with a clay jug of water and a dishrag, and handed both to Sherlock's outstretched hand. With great care, Sherlock dabbed at the mark, trying to wash off the blood without smearing it all over the wall. Bit by bit, he revealed scratch marks that had been covered by the blood. To John, they looked like somebody had tried to draw a... cup or goblet of some sort? But they already knew the poison was in the wine. Damn. Another dead end.  
  
Sherlock had been staring intently at the scratch marks, but now he muttered “useless”, and without another word, left the room with a huff of impatience. John looked at Lestrade and shook his head in apology, then hurried after Sherlock. When they were back on the street and a safe distance away from the gold cloak guarding the inn’s entrance, John grabbed Sherlock’s arm to force him to stop. When Sherlock turned around abruptly to face him, his shoulders were tense and anger was again etched in every line of his face. John had never seen Sherlock so upset before. “Care to tell me what’s the matter?” John asked, his own anger rising in turn.  
  
“There is nothing the matter,” Sherlock said coldly. “Why do you assume something is wrong? Why do you even care?”  
  
John held up both hands in what he hoped was a calming gesture. “Look, I know it must be hard for you, not being able to save these people...”  
  
The short, humorless snort Sherlock gave was quickly replaced with an icy stare. “I don’t care about the people, John. I care about catching the murderer.”  
  
“Right.” John was taken aback by Sherlock’s words, but tried not to let it show. Sherlock didn’t _think_ like other people, so why did he expect him to _feel_ like other people? There was no point in pestering him about it, so he decided to take a different approach. “So, tell me about the murderer, then. How does he find his victims? If we know how he gets them, maybe there’s a way we can warn people.”  
  
Sherlock shook his head. “The victims had nothing in common except their sinfulness. A cruel and violent husband, a corrupt gold cloak, a craven sellsword, a whore. You want to keep people safe? “Don’t commit sins” is sound advice, but if fear of the Seven has been unable to erase sin from the face of this city, I doubt fear of a murderer will.”  
  
“But how could he have known about the corrupt gold cloak or the craven sellsword? They wouldn’t have told just anybody about that, especially not some goldsmith’s apprentice,” John wondered.  
  
Sherlock’s face took on a thoughtful look. “No, they wouldn’t, would they?” He blinked a few times, his eyes focused on a distant spot somewhere over John’s right shoulder. Suddenly, Sherlock straightened and John could hear the sharp intake of breath. “Oh, that’s clever. _Is_ it clever? _Why_ is it clever?”  
  
Trying to meet Sherlock’s still distant gaze, John asked, “Sherlock, what do you mean?”  
  
Sherlock’s eyes snapped to John, and he was startled by the intensity of that look. “Think! Where can you hear a man boasting about his exploits? Where do you go to drown your sorrows and bemoan your fate? Where can a pretty young harlot pick up a well-paying customer?”  
  
Sherlock’s intense stare was starting to disconcert him. “A… tavern?” John guessed, flustered.  
  
“Indeed. And I know exactly which one,” he said with a smug smile, and looked back up the street. “The harlot, oh, she was clever, clever, yes! She's cleverer than Lestrade's lot and she's dead.” Sherlock's eyes met John's again, his fierce gaze boring into him. For the first time, John noticed the unusual color of Sherlock's eyes: They were storm-gray with tiny flecks of gold. “Imagine, John, if you were dying... if you'd been murdered: in your very last few moments, what would you say?”  
  
John looked down at the rough-hewn stones that paved the street, but in his mind's eye he saw dead leaves and white snow, stained with blood and muddy bootprints. The dead men around him were silent, but the moans and anguished cries of those still fighting death roared in his ears. For a brief moment, he could even feel the sharp pain of the wildling arrow, growing dimmer as more and more blood seeped out of his shoulder and his vision began to turn black at the edges. He had felt cold, so cold, colder than ever before in his life. It wasn't hard to remember what he'd thought, though at the time he had been too weak to say it out loud. “Please, Gods, let me live.”  
  
He looked back up at Sherlock, who gave him a look of utter exasperation. “Oh, use your imagination!” he said derisively.  
  
John blinked, and for a long moment, he said nothing. _So clever, and yet he fails to see... How can he not **know**?_ He carefully kept his face blank as he lifted his chin and looked straight at Sherlock. “I don't have to,” he said, with only the barest hint of defiance detectable in his voice.  
  
Surprise, shock, and something that looked suspiciously like guilt flashed briefly over Sherlock's face, but they passed as quickly as they'd come, replaced again by frantic excitement. “Yes, but if you were clever, _really_ clever. What would you say? Think!”  
  
John looked away from Sherlock, at the houses across the street and the people passing by. Unbelievable. _Instead of apologizing, the bloody man insults me. Of course, that's what Sherlock does, isn't it? Why should he care?_ But punching him certainly wouldn't help things now, and anyway, there were lives at stake. He could feel Sherlock's unwavering gaze on him, demanding an answer. So, what had Sherlock told him to do? Think. With some effort, he cleared his mind of the turmoil of emotion. If he'd been murdered, what would he think of? _The name of the murderer_ , was the first thing that came to John's mind. But no, the woman might not have known it, and even if she did, and even if she had known her letters, it would have probably taken too long to scratch them onto the wall. Too many “if”s, too complicated. Something else then. “The place she met her murderer,” he said, looking warily at Sherlock, who nodded grimly, confirming John's guess. Without further elaboration, Sherlock turned away and resumed walking down the street.  
  
John assumed they would head for that place, some tavern apparently, right away, but soon he realized they were back on the Street of Flour. “The Two Old Bakers Inn?” he asked incredulously. Was it even possible that the murderer had worked right under their noses the whole time?  
  
“Yes, obviously,” Sherlock said absentmindedly. He had not spoken another word since he had mentioned the tavern, instead walking briskly but paying no attention to his surroundings, lost in thought. Now, however, he shook off his contemplation and looked alert again as he shot John a sidelong glance. “No, of course the murderer did _not_ find his victims here. But I need to prepare for the next step. And I want to show you something.”  
  
Once they entered their sitting room, Sherlock carelessly discarded his cloak and went straight to one of the shelves next to the fireplace, shifting piles of scrolls and flicking through stacks of parchments until he found what he was looking for. He pulled out a large map of the city and pinned it on the wall above the settle.  
  
“This is where the gold cloak was found,” he said as he pushed a thin metal pin into the place on the map. John cringed as the pin pierced the fabric. Maester Luwin (and his mother) would have been appalled by such a treatment of a precious object. “The sellsword lived here,” another pin was forced into the map, “and the harlot here,” Sherlock said as the last pin found its place. “There is only one tavern within a short walking distance of all three victim’s homes.” He tapped a long finger on the place where Ropemaker Street crossed the Muddy Way. “The Golden Chalice.”


	11. Rush

When Sherlock withdrew to his bedchamber and closed the door behind him, John decided to leave him to his preparations and make himself a late lunch. Afterwards, he took a seat in his chair and picked up the book on healing herbs he had been reading the previous day, but the summer's afternoon sunlight streaming into the sitting room soon made him drowsy. Instead of succumbing to sleep's temptation, John got up and opened the sitting room windows to a relieve the room of the stifling heat. With the fresh breeze cooling his skin, he returned to his book. Not long after, he heard Sherlock emerge from his room and putter around in the supping room. When he finally entered the sitting room, John barely recognized him. Instead of his usual fine robes, Sherlock was now wearing plain brown breeches and a long-sleeved gray tunic. The only noticeable item he bore was an elaborately chased brown leather belt.  
  
“Not your usual attire,” John remarked dryly.  
  
“Excellent observation, John,” Sherlock said in his most condescending tone. “It's called a disguise.”  
  
John wasn't sure why Sherlock would need a disguise, but maybe he simply didn't want to draw any unnecessary attention while spying out the tavern. “Do I need a disguise as well?”  
  
“No, you look plain enough as it is,” Sherlock said dismissively. “Come on, let's go.”  
  
When they arrived at the Golden Chalice, dusk had barely fallen, and the tavern was still half-empty. Sherlock nodded in the direction of a free table in the far corner. “Watch. Don't interfere,” he whispered, and promptly walked up to the counter, where he sat down on one of the free stools. John stood undecided for a moment, but then shrugged inwardly and sat down at the table Sherlock had indicated. The serving wench who made the rounds quickly came over and took his order: a tankard of ale and a platter of smallbites. She had an pretty face with warm, brown eyes and a friendly, open smile. Her raven-black hair was mostly hidden by her white bonnet, but when she turned to serve another table, John saw that it was gathered into a carefully braided plait that reached all the way down to the small of her back.  
  
As dusk turned into night, the tavern filled quickly, and John carefully kept watching the other patrons. However, he didn't know what Ned, the goldsmith's apprentice, looked like, which made his task slightly more difficult. Well, he did know that Ned was dark-haired, but apart from that, there really wasn't much for him to go on. As far as he could tell, none of the young lads who visited the tavern behaved suspiciously. Sherlock would surely notice anything that John might miss, if he weren't so busy talking to the other patrons and, John noted with a slight sense of unease, drinking heavily. At one point he had been invited to join a table of middle-aged men – craftsmen and merchants, as far as John could tell – and he had soon become the center of attention by his lively recounting of some ridiculous tale or another. Although John sat too far away to make out what he was saying, the raucous laughter that followed the end of one of his stories could even be heard over the din of the busy tavern. _Don't interfere_ , he told himself. _It's probably all part of his plan._  
  
The night wore on and it was well past midnight when one after the other the men at Sherlock's table took their leave. When Sherlock, too, got up to say his goodbyes, he swayed slightly, and John could clearly make out surprise and confusion on his face. Had he really thought his body wouldn't be affected by the drinking, John wondered. Although, if anybody could make his will master his body, it would surely be Sherlock.   
  
When his drunk companion tried to take a few steps towards the door, he staggered, and looked at John, his eyes wide in alarm, before he stumbled and landed on the floor in an ungraceful heap. Sighing, John got up and walked over to where Sherlock was lying on his front, struggling unsuccessfully to get back to his feet. The pretty black-haired serving wench was crouched next to him, and firmly took hold of his left arm to lift him up. John gave her a thankful smile and took the other arm, and together they managed to get Sherlock upright. However, Sherlock's lolling head and half-closed eyes told John that there was no way Sherlock was going to be able to walk back to their quarters by himself. He put Sherlock's right arm over his shoulders to better support his weight, and thought of the long walk ahead of them. Sherlock was lithe, of course, but it would nevertheless be a struggle to get him home. He hoped fervently that his limp wouldn't decide that this was the right time to make itself known again. He was still pondering his predicament when the black-haired girl interrupted his thoughts. “Looks like he had a bit more to drink than he could stomach.”  
  
“True,” John smiled at her apologetically. “I think I had best take him home now.”  
  
“It looks like you could need some help,” she said. “My name's Nell and my shift ends shortly.”  
  
“That's very kind of you, but it's really not necessary. I'm sure I can mange.” John took a few steps and nearly stumbled himself. Damn it, this would indeed be harder than he had thought, what with Sherlock slumping half-unconscious against him. Nell looked at him with equal parts amusement and exasperation before lifting Sherlock's left arm over her shoulders. “Myra,” she called over her shoulder to one of the other girls behind the counter, “I need to leave a bit early. I hope you don't mind cleaning up by yourself? I'll make it up to you, I promise!”  
  
The girl who John presumed to be Myra grinned while continuing to wipe down the counter. “I'll make sure you remember that promise on the morrow. Come on, then, get those two out of here.”  
  
With Sherlock hanging barely conscious between them like a sack of potatoes, they made their way out of the tavern. John glanced over at Nell's black-haired form. She was about his height, and despite her slender figure, appeared to not have a problem keeping up with him. When she caught him looking, he smiled at her. “I'm John. Thank you for helping out.”   
  
Nell smiled warmly in return. “So, do you two know each other well?”  
  
John thought about that for a moment. Right now he felt like he didn't know Sherlock at all, which was quite unsurprising since he had only met the man four days ago, but at the same time it seemed as if he had known him for much longer. “We're both staying at the Two Old Bakers Inn,” he said truthfully.  
  
“Oh, I see,” Nell said. “Are you a leather craftsman then, as well?”  
  
Seven hells, Sherlock hadn't told him any details about his disguise, John realized with a start. What was he supposed to tell Nell? He knew he wasn't a good liar – his mother and Harla had always been able to see right through him. “No, I'm not. I used to be a household guard, but I was injured in a fight.”  
  
“Well, I guess that might be useful if we should be unfortunate enough to come across some cutthroats.” She looked at him appraisingly. “So, where did you serve, John?”  
  
Time passed quickly as John told Nell about Winterfell and the North while they walked to the Two Old Bakers Inn. Together, they dragged Sherlock inside and up the steps, and after John managed to fumble for his keys and unlock the door one-handedly, they finally lowered Sherlock onto the settle.   
  
“I can't think of how to thank you, Nell,” John said gratefully.  
  
“Use your imagination,” she said with an coy smile. “And once you've come up with something, you know where to find me. Until then I bid you farewell, John of Winterfell.” She did a mock curtsey, and quietly closed the door behind her.   
  
John smiled a little to himself before returning his thoughts to Sherlock's sleeping form. He pondered whether he should rouse the man and try to move him to his bedchamber, but rather decided to let him sleep. John quickly fetched a blanket from his upstairs room, and Sherlock didn't even stir when John removed his boots before carefully spreading the blanket over him. Asleep and with his sharp, angular features softened by the moonlight streaming through the open sitting room windows, he looked younger and more vulnerable, for once serene and untroubled. His chest rose and fell regularly with his deep and steady breaths. John quietly left for his upstairs room, leaving Sherlock to sleep off his drink.  
  
***  
  
John woke – again – while it was still dark outside. This seemed to become a habit of his, and he wondered what might have woken him this time. It hadn't been a nightmare, and he didn't hear Sherlock's violin, so what else could it have been? After a moment's hesitation, he sat up, slipped out of bed and dressed in a hurry. He crept quietly down the stairs, but stopped suddenly when he heard voices from their sitting room. A sliver of faint yellow lamplight was visible between the door and the floorboards. He carefully pressed his ear to the wooden door and listened.  
  
“I hope you don't mind that I took your key and let myself in.” John gasped in shock as he recognized the voice: It belonged to Nell.   
  
“I'm not...,” Sherlock groaned, “... who you think I am.”  
  
“No, I know you're not. That was a nice little performance that you gave at the tavern. A lazy, lying craftsman that takes all the credit for other people's hard work... a sinner to the Smith. And then you played a drunkard, too... how clever. But apparently you didn't notice my little addition to that final cup of yours. I could do anything I wanted to you right now. Anything at all. But don't worry. I'm only going to kill you. The Crone shall be delighted.”   
  
The muffled sound of something heavy crashing onto the floor made John jump, and he already had his hand on the doorknob when Nell's voice halted him.  
  
“There's no point in trying to flee or raising your voice,” Nell said. “You'll still be weak as a kitten for at least another hour, and this poisoned dagger will kill you before any help can arrive.”  
  
Gods be good, she had a weapon. If he simply barged into the room, there was no telling how Nell would react, and he didn't want to risk a standoff with her poisoned dagger pressed to Sherlock's throat. There was only one entrance to the quarters: If they were in the sitting room, he probably wouldn't be able to enter unnoticed – if they were in the supping room on the other hand, maybe he could sneak up on her and take her by surprise. He needed to get a better idea of what was going on inside their quarters.   
  
Nell's voice took on a soft, gentle tone. “I know you think I poisoned the others without their knowledge. But you're wrong. I gave them a choice. And I shall give you that choice, too.”  
  
He knew he needed to move quickly, and gain any advantage he could. Silent as a shadow, John crept back up the stairs to his room and retrieved the dagger, bow and arrows from under his mattress. He fastened the dagger to his belt and slung the quiver of arrows across his back. With steady, practiced movements, he picked up the bowstring and slipped its looped bottom end into the nock on the lower tip of the bow. Using his legs to curve the bow, he quickly hooked the top loop of the string into the nock on the upper tip. He carefully flexed the bow a few times before flinging it across his back. Then he quietly slipped out of the house and surveyed his surroundings.   
  
In the black hour before dawn, the street was deserted and still. Across from the Two Old Bakers Inn, he spotted a house with an external staircase. He realized that from the upstairs landing, he should be able to see what was going on inside their sitting room. After another look left and right to make sure there were no unwanted eyes watching him, he quickly strode over and climbed the stairs. Arriving at the landing, he was rewarded with a clear line of sight into the room, which was illuminated by a single lamp on the table in front of the settle. Next to the lamp stood two small, empty flagons. John breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that Sherlock was sitting on the settle, apparently unharmed.   
  
However, he froze in shock as he realized that Sherlock was staring intently at a cup he was holding in his hands. Nell sat opposite him, slowly lifting another cup to her lips with her right hand. In her left hand, the sharp edge of a blade glittered dangerously. She was now saying something to him, and after another thoughtful, almost curious look at his cup, Sherlock lifted his as well. John realized in horror that he was about to drink from the cup at any moment. There was no time to think it through, no time to consider the consequences. All John knew was that he had to stop this right now.   
  
With motions that he had practiced a thousand times and that were still second nature to him, he took the bow from his back and gripped it tightly with his left hand. In one swift movement, he pulled an arrow from the quiver on his back, nocked it and lifted the bow, drawing the string taut until his right hand touched his cheek. Exhaling very slowly and deliberately, he let loose his shot. The arrow hit Nell square in the side of her chest just below her arm, sending the cup and the dagger flying out of her hands. Both clattered to the floor, and the cup's blood-red contents spilled onto the carpet. Nell collapsed onto the floor next to the cup, a red stain blossoming on her white shirt where the arrow shaft stuck out of her side. John's aim had been true – he knew he had punctured the lung and possibly the heart. Nell would be dead very soon. Sherlock, too, had dropped his cup in surprise. He tried to stand up, but whatever Nell had given him was still in his blood, so instead he crawled over to inspect the body. Because he had his back to him, John couldn't make out what exactly he was doing or saying to the dying woman.  
  
When John finally lowered his bow, he realized that although his heart was racing, he was completely calm. With steady hands, he slung the bow back over his back and quickly crossed the street. On the landing outside their quarters, he hesitated. He should go into the sitting room and check on Sherlock – and make sure Nell was dead – but he wasn't sure Sherlock would approve of his actions. He had killed Nell, with a weapon he wasn't even supposed to have. He definitely needed to avoid being questioned by the City Watch. And would Sherlock lie for him if he learned the truth about John? He was quite sure he would, but he found himself not wanting to burden Sherlock unnecessarily with the knowledge of his deed. All in all, it was probably best not to give himself away, so he crept up the stairs to his room and carefully hid the dagger, bow and arrows again. Just as he had put everything away, he heard Sherlock shout “John!” from downstairs. Glad to have an excuse to come down into the sitting room, he hurried noisily downstairs. When he opened the door to the sitting room, he saw Sherlock sitting next to Nell's still body, the blood-stained arrow held carefully against the light from the lamp on the table in front of the settle. John walked in slowly, saying, “Gods be good, what happened, Sherlock? Are you all right?”  
  
“I'm fine,” Sherlock said, and waved his other hand dismissively in the direction of Nell's body. “She tried to kill me, and someone shot her, through the open window.” He looked at the arrow again, taking in every detail. “This arrow was shot from a longbow. A kill shot at night, over that distance and from that kind of weapon – that's an expert shot, but he's not just a marksman: A fighter. His hands couldn't have shaken at all, so clearly he's accustomed to violence. He didn't fire until I was in immediate danger, though, so strong moral principles. We're looking for a man probably with a history of serving as a household guard, and nerves of steel...” Sherlock's voice trailed off. His eyes lit up as he looked with renewed interest from the arrow to John.   
  
John swallowed nervously. “A murderer would have had enemies, I suppose. One of them... could have been following her,” he finished weakly.  
  
Sherlock gaze rested quietly on him for a moment, and John felt dread pooling like lead in his stomach. “Good shot,” Sherlock said finally, his face unreadable to John.   
  
_Don't lose your nerve, maybe it's just a lucky guess_ , he firmly told himself. “Yes,” John admitted. “Yes, it must have been, through that window and with so little light.”  
  
Sherlock looked at him expectantly. “Well, _you'd_ know.”  
  
 _Oh Gods, he knows_ , John thought anxiously, but tried carefully to keep his face blank.  
  
Sherlock pointed the arrow at him. “We need to get rid of this arrow. I assume you have a quiver full of them upstairs, all of the same make. The shaft's wood, the fletching, the arrowhead – they make an arrow unique, and even the gold cloaks wouldn't be stupid enough to miss the connection if they happened to come upon them in your room. I don't suppose you'd rot in the dungeons for this, but let's avoid the trouble.”   
  
_The gold cloaks?_ A stab of fear made John's stomach clench. He cleared his throat nervously, and avoided Sherlock's sharp gaze.   
  
“Are you all right?” Sherlock asked in an uncharacteristic show of concern.  
  
“Yes, of course I'm all right.” The words were out of his mouth before he could even think about them, a matter of habit more than anything else.  
  
Sherlock looked at him closely. “Well, you _have_ just killed a woman,” he pointed out.  
  
“Yes, I...,” John trailed off. He smiled when he realized that he was, in fact, all right. “That's true, isn't it? But she wasn't a very _nice_ woman.”  
  
Sherlock nodded in agreement. “No. No, she wasn't really, was she?”  
  
“And frankly an awful serving wench,” John added. “I never got those smallbites I ordered from her back at the tavern.”  
  
Sherlock chuckled. “That's true. She _was_ a bad serving wench. Can you believe she actually used my gold wine cups for that Dornish red, when everybody knows that only whites are served in those?”  
  
John giggled. He never giggled. It was completely unlike him to giggle. He wondered briefly what was wrong with him to giggle after having just shot a young woman, but decided to push that thought firmly aside. He had done what had been necessary, and he simply felt immense relief that Sherlock was all right, that they had both come out of this mess unscathed. Which brought back the unpleasant memory of seeing Sherlock lift the cup with the poisoned wine to drink from it. John cleared his throat again. “You were going to drink from the damned cup, weren't you?  
  
Sherlock's face was unreadable. “Of course I wasn't. I was biding my time. I knew you'd intervene.”  
  
“No you didn't.” John wasn't a genius like Sherlock, but he could tell this wasn't true. Sherlock hadn't known he was the shooter, at least not at first. Sherlock never relied on other people's help. “You enjoy it, don't you? You risk your life to prove you're clever.”  
  
Sherlock looked genuinely curious. “Why would I do that?”  
  
“Because you're an idiot,” John said fondly.  
  
Instead of being affronted, Sherlock smiled delightedly. John found it rather adorable. However, Sherlock soon turned more serious. “You need to fetch Captain Lestrade.”  
  
John had really, really hoped they'd be able to keep out the City Watch, but he knew Sherlock was right. He'd face the consequences of his actions, of course he would. “What should I tell him?”  
  
Sherlock picked up the dagger that had fallen to the floor, and knelt over the body. After taking aim briefly, he swiftly stabbed the blade into the arrow wound, and looked at John. “Self-defense.”  
  
John blinked, and then nodded. He briefly wondered why Sherlock had so casually taken the blame for killing the woman. Could Sherlock be... protecting him? John quickly dismissed the thought as ridiculous. No, Sherlock probably only thought it would save them time – after all, he knew Lestrade well and the name of House Holmes gave his words weight. The gold cloaks wouldn't dare to trouble him, so it really was the most expedient solution to their problem. Well, if this was the way Sherlock wanted this done, so be it.   
  
John took the blood-stained arrow from Sherlock's hand, and got rid of it on his way to the City Watch barracks. The gold cloak on duty obstinately did not want to take him to see Captain Lestrade at first, but when John had finally convinced the man that there was indeed a serial murderer lying dead in their quarters, he went to look for the captain fast enough. Soon after, John was on his way back to the Two Old Bakers Inn, accompanied by Captain Lestrade and four of his men. Luckily, neither Salleon nor Andrey were among them.   
  
They arrived at the inn when the first rays of morning light crept over the rooftops in the Street of Flour. Sherlock was, of course, waiting for them impatiently. Whatever Nell had put into Sherlock's cup, it must have finally worn off, because he was pacing the sitting room when they entered. After a moment, John realized he had changed his clothing, as he was now once again wearing one of his expensive-looking robes.  
  
When Lestrade spotted the body lying on the floor, his eyes widened in shock. “You killed a young woman?!?”  
  
“She was a serial murderer, Lestrade, the one you were looking for.” Sherlock pointed at the cup still lying on the floor. “She poisoned four people.”  
  
Lestrade sighed. “What do you mean, _four_ people? Will Storm, Jeren, Bethany... who am I missing?”  
  
“The first victim, Jeffory, a goldsmith. He died a fortnight ago, though his family never suspected foul play,” Sherlock explained. “He liked to torture his wife, and when he killed her by pushing her down the stairs, the wife's lover sought revenge. Jeffory was murdered – by their maid Danelle, or Nell as she apparently preferred to be called.” John thought of the locket they had found hidden in Lucia's basket. L and N. N for Nell, not Ned. _There's always something_ , he thought with a wry smile. “Nell,” Sherlock continued, “didn't take up the whole “marks in blood” business until the second victim.”  
  
A frown started to form on Lestrade's tired face. “But why? Why would she suddenly start murdering people in the name of the Seven?”  
  
Sherlock didn't answer; instead, he stopped his pacing to stand in front of the right sitting room window – the one through which John had shot Nell. He steepled his hands in front of his chin and looked pensively outside.  
  
John cleared his throat nervously. “Maybe the first murder... pushed her over the edge somehow? She wouldn't be the first to lose her mind over grief and guilt.”  
  
As if searching for confirmation, Lestrade looked from John to Sherlock, who seemed oblivious to their presence and didn't offer any other explanation. Lestrade's gaze turned to Nell's pale body lying in a pool of scarlet blood on their sitting room floor, then back to Sherlock. “So, how did she end up dead in your sitting room?”  
  
Sherlock turned back, his mouth set in a thin, deprecative line. “She must have heard that I was asking questions about Jeffory's death, so she broke in while I was asleep. She threatened me with a poisoned dagger.” Sherlock looked pointedly at the dagger protruding from the body on the floor. “ _That_ dagger. Of course, it wasn't really poisoned.”  
  
John hadn't even considered that it could have been a ruse. “How could you know that?” he wanted to know.  
  
“Remember that she drew the marks in her own blood, because it was unmarred by sin. Well, apparently she had decided that I would make a nice addition to her victim collection, so she had brought along her poisoned wine.” Sherlock picked up the cup that lay next to her body. “She had planned to draw a mark here, as well. Obviously, she never would have cut herself with a poisoned blade.” He walked over to the settle and picked up the other cup that had rolled under the table, then put both cups next to the two flagons on the table. “She poured two cups, one for me and one for her. One contained poison, and the other did not. Then she told me to choose one, and that she would drink the other cup. She firmly believed the Seven had protected her four times already, and would continue to do so. A delusion, of course. I tried to disarm her, but she was faster than I expected. There was a struggle.”  
  
Lestrade looked at him worriedly. “You're not hurt, are you?”  
  
“I'm fine,” Sherlock replied in a bored voice.  
  
To John, this looked like the perfect opportunity to end the interrogation and get both of them out of their quarters while the gold cloaks took care of the body. “Captain Lestrade,” he said with a stern look, “to my knowledge, this man hasn't eaten for several days. Now, if you want him alive for your next case, what he's going to do right now is break his fast with me, preferably at the Pacing Pony.” Which was conveniently far enough away from their home to get rid of Lestrade and his men.  
  
Lestrade looked incredulously at Sherlock. “But I've still got questions for you!”  
  
“Oh, what now?” Sherlock threw his hands up in irritation. “I just caught you a serial murderer... more or less.”  
  
Lestrade looked at him thoughtfully, considering his option. “All right. But you're coming in for questioning later. Off you go.”  
  
Sherlock grabbed his cloak, and fastened it over his shoulders with a dramatic swirl. John followed him down the steps and out of the front door. However, they had only taken a few steps, when John stopped dead in his tracks as he spotted the mysterious dark-haired man he'd met four days ago at the brothel. He was standing a short distance away on the other side of the street, again dressed impeccably in a black robe and a dark-green cloak trimmed in red, casually leaning on the ebony staff with the ivory handle. Next to him stood the woman whose name was not Anthea, now dressed in a simple black gown.  
  
“Sherlock,” John whispered urgently, “that's him. That's the man I was talking to you about before we went to the Great Sept of Baelor.”  
  
Sherlock looked across the street at the man, a frown forming on his face. “I know _exactly_ who that is.” He quickly crossed the street and glared at the man. John quickly followed, looking around to see whether there were any gold cloaks nearby, should the need arise. He regretted not having his dagger with him.  
  
The dark-haired man gave Sherlock a tight-lipped smile. “So, another case cracked. How very public spirited... though that's never really your motivation, is it?”  
  
“What are you doing here?” Sherlock asked, more annoyed than angry.  
  
The man looked closely at Sherlock. “As ever, I'm concerned about you.”  
  
“Yes, I've been hearing about your 'concern',” Sherlock said scathingly.  
  
“Always so aggressive.” The man raised his eyebrows questioningly. “Did it never occur to you that you and I belong on the same side?”  
  
“Oddly enough, no!” Sherlock huffed.  
  
“We have more in common than you like to believe.” The man's tone took on a more condescending tone. “This petty feud between us is simply childish. People will suffer... and you know how it always upset mother.”  
  
Sherlock looked outraged. “ _I_ upset her? Me? It wasn't me that upset her, Mycroft.”  
  
John frowned in confusion. He had the peculiar feeling that he was missing some very important piece of information here. “No, no, wait. Mother? Whose mother?” he asked Sherlock.  
  
Sherlock turned to him to explain. “ _Our_ mother. This is my brother, Mycroft.” He looked at Mycroft quizzically. “Putting on weight again?”  
  
Mycroft's voice had a slight edge to it as he said with a tight-lipped smile, “Losing it, in fact.”  
  
John looked at Mycroft incredulously. He had imagined the man to be many things, but certainly not Sherlock's brother. For some reason he couldn't wrap his head around the idea. “He's your _brother_?!  
  
 _“Of course_ he's my brother,” Sherlock said, as if it should be obvious to anybody with half a working mind. It really wasn't, at least not to John.  
  
“So he's not...,” John trailed off.  
  
“Not what?” Sherlock asked.  
  
John shrugged in embarrassment. “I don't know... a criminal mastermind?” Of course, once he said it out loud, it did seem like the most ludicrous idea. Great.  
  
Sherlock shot Mycroft a cold look. “Close enough.”  
  
“For goodness' sake,” Mycroft sighed. “I am a minor counselor to the Master of Laws.”  
  
“He _is_ the Master of Laws,” Sherlock corrected. “When he's not too busy being the Master of Coin or the Master of Whispers.” Sherlock gave Mycroft another cold look. “Good evening, Mycroft. Try not to start a war before I get home. You know what it does for the price of onions in this city.”  
  
John started to follow Sherlock down the road, leaving Mycroft and Anthea behind, but something kept nagging at him, and made him turn around to face Mycroft once more. “So, when... when you say you're concerned about him, you actually _are_ concerned?” he said with a hint of incredulity.  
  
“Yes, of course,” Mycroft replied solemnly.  
  
John was fairly sure Mycroft was telling the truth, but he needed to make sure he wasn't mistaken in this. He couldn't afford to miss something, or to misunderstand, because had a feeling that this wasn't the last time he'd have to deal with whatever was going on between the Holmes brothers. “I mean, it actually _is_ a childish feud?”  
  
“He's always been so resentful,” Mycroft said ruefully. “You can imagine the harvest feast dinners.” His expression was... pained.?  
  
“Yes...,” John said absentmindedly while looking at Sherlock's retreating form. Then he actually did try to picture Sherlock and Mycroft at the high table of a great hall, surrounded by Lord and Lady Holmes, as well as other noblemen and noblewomen, the merry sounds of feasting knights, squires, household servants and smallfolk mingling with the clatter of plates and silverware. So many boring rules to break, so many boring people to deduce (and insult). “No. Gods, no!” John hastily amended. He looked again towards Sherlock, who had stopped at a street corner, impatiently tapping his foot. “I... I'd better...,” he fumbled, but then his gaze turned to Anthea again. She really did look pretty in that black gown, her pale face with the high cheekbones half-turned away from him, her brown eyes busily surveying the street and everybody who was moving on it at this late, or rather, very early hour. “Hello again,” he said, trying to catch her attention. Anthea's eyes flicked up to meet his.  
  
“Hello,” she said, smiling, but with a slight question in her voice.  
  
“Yes, we... we met four days ago,” John reminded her, waiting for her reaction.  
  
Anthea's eyes widened just a bit too much as she exclaimed “Oh!”, and her voice was just a bit too high to pass for real surprise. John knew a rejection when he saw one.  
  
“All right, good day,” he said quickly, nodding to Anthea and Mycroft before turning to catch up with Sherlock.  
  
“Good day, John,” Mycroft said slowly, more to himself than to John, who had already turned his back to him.  
  
When they were well out of earshot from Mycroft and Anthea, John said to Sherlock, “So, breaking fast.”  
  
“Mmmh, I can always predict the day's special,” Sherlock claimed.  
  
“No, you can't,” John replied.  
  
“Almost can,” Sherlock amended. ”You did get shot, though”.  
  
The abrupt change of topic caught John off-guard. “Sorry?”  
  
“During the wildling ambush near Winterfell,” Sherlock elaborated. “There _was_ an actual wound.”  
  
“Oh, yeah,” John admitted. “Shoulder.”  
  
“Shoulder!” Sherlock exclaimed. “I thought so.”  
  
“No, you didn't,” John said.  
  
Sherlock refused to concede. “The left one.”  
  
John smirked. “Lucky guess.”  
  
“I never guess,” Sherlock said smugly.  
  
John chuckled. “Yes you do.” When he looked at Sherlock, he caught him smiling. “What are you so happy about?”  
  
“Moriarty,” Sherlock answered.  
  
John had never heard of that word before, but then again, he wasn't Sherlock. “What's Moriarty?” he asked.  
  
Sherlock's face took on a thoughtful expression. “It was Nell's last word before she died. I had asked her why she had kept killing after her first murder.”  
  
John's brows furrowed as he parsed that statement. “What do you think it means?”  
  
To John's surprise, Sherlock replied, “I have absolutely _no_ idea.” He smiled in delight at the idea of this new mystery, and John couldn't help but smile with him.  
  
Across the street from the Two Old Bakers Inn, Anthea turned to Mycroft. “Shall we go, my lord?”  
  
Mycroft's thoughtful gaze followed the two solitary figures walking down the street together. “Interesting, that soldier fellow. He could be the making of my brother – or make him worse than ever. Either way, we'd better keep a careful eye on them. Let Ser Garth know about it.”  
  
Anthea looked at him in surprise. “Sorry, my lord. An eye on whom?”  
  
Mycroft's gaze lingered on the receding figures as he said, “Sherlock Holmes and John of Winterfell.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this till the end! I hope you enjoyed it, and I'd be thrilled to get some feedback. Comments, bookmarks and kudos are highly appreciated and will be petted, fed and given a loving home. Oh, and if you want to follow me on tumblr, you can find me [here](http://white-dress-purple-shirt.tumblr.com/).


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